


Who You Are

by enigma_eggroll



Series: Who You Are [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M, Loneliness, SHIELD, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma_eggroll/pseuds/enigma_eggroll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a laugh from a dark haired girl on the street, but it trips off a set of events that no one could expect or anticipate.  Truth is stranger than fiction, but when your whole life is fiction, who's to say what strange really is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tainted

**Author's Note:**

> One quick note before this starts – blending in a few elements of comic book canon that have either been ignored or not brought up, but create an interesting concept to play with. In the twentieth century releases of the Captain America comics, Steve Rogers identity was a secret (yes, like Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne and the DC ilk). The movie has him out there, but I thought, hmmmm, what if…that's how this little oddball was born. Not sure how many full chapters yet, but it's going to be different from what you've seen from me, so sit back and hopefully enjoy.
> 
> Thank you in advance to SLCKat for Beta'ing and Jadzia Bear for lending perspective.

The cold registers first - a low, aching sort of chill that's wet and cuts down to the bone. Chirping follows -high pitched and uneven, the kind of sound made by big, green and brown bugs found in the backyard after the sun goes down. Growing up, the neighborhood kids loved to catch them, sealing them in glass jars with punctured tops, the bottoms lined with strands of grass ripped carelessly from the ground. That was a long time ago, though, back when Darcy had an actual yard. There've been multiple homes since then: cinder block college dormitories and mobile homes in the desert, and now her tiny studio in Red Hook with its whopping 450 square feet of disorganized chaos. Sure, it may look like a bomb went off, scattering clothes and magazines everywhere, but it's dry and warm, with absolutely no cicadas around to drive her crazy.

Darcy sits up slowly, unprepared for the pain that roars up her spine. It slams into the base of her skull, shattering into tiny, razor sharp shards that rip through her skull, blinding white dots of pain that are ice cold. For a second, they glimmer like stars, brilliant white, then soften and fade behind a veil of tears.

Every motion is agony, muscles stiff and sore. Her mouth is dry, her tongue swollen and fuzzy. It reminds her of a night in the not too distant past, where ridiculous drinks like mind erasers and kamikazes had gone down all too easily.

The room is dark, and she squints, struggling to make out familiar shapes in the dim light. A light, far above, lets in a weak wash of light, just enough to illuminate the room.

In the far corner, a large mass moves, muted blues and browns swirled with white.

"Where am I?" she asks.

"Don't move too fast." It comes from the dark shape in the corner. "You've been out for a long time. It took me a good thirty minutes to shake off the fog. It may very well take you longer."

Darcy gently probes the base of her neck, the muscles giving easily under her cold fingers. The images that come back are fuzzy- a bus, packed as always, and then the street meat vendor on the corner, just like always. The usual Friday night order - a Coney, extra mustard and onions, along with a coke, all while surreptitiously glancing at the man on her left. He was polished and sparkling, preppy in that expensive catalogue kind of way, his blonde hair golden in the late afternoon sun. He took the same bus home with her most days, always staring out the window with a faraway look on his face.

"I'll have the same as the lady," he says, a's drawing out like a good Brooklyn boy. "Extra onions, please."

After that, all is dark. A flash of teeth, the tang of spicy mustard, and then nothing.

"Please tell me they didn't taint my meat," Darcy groans, squeezing the base of her neck again. "I can't afford eating out, and that's my only perk."

"Afraid so," the man says. He leans forward into the light, hair spilling across his forehead. There's a hole in his shirt where a button had once secured the collar to the body. Streaks of dirt and creases mar the usually impeccable cotton. "To be honest, I think I'll be swearing off franks for a while."

"Fucking assholes." Darcy leans back slowly, willing herself to ignore the rolling gurgles in her stomach and the musty smell of old cotton. "Where are we?"

The man turns his face away, but she imagines the corners of his mouth are turned down. It's her mother's favorite expression when she expresses disgust. "Far as I can tell, we're in a basement of some sort. It would explain the cold."

He stays in the corner, arms draped casually across his knees. Details are easier to discern now. There's a streak of grease along the man's left cheek, and a nasty cut on the bridge of his nose. He's a large man, easily a foot taller than she is, shoulders broad like a football player. Men this size should be able to take care of themselves, fending off attacks easily.

"What the hell do they want?" The words roll off her tongue, uncensored and raw. "I'm not anyone. I don't have any money!"

The images come unbidden from bad movies viewed too late at night. Women drugged, wearing cheap lingerie and high heels. Men in the dark bidding ridiculous amounts of money based on the perceived purity. Her lungs burn, fear bubbling up so fast it's impossible to get the air deep enough to make a difference.

"Don't worry," the man says. "I somehow doubt they had that in mind when they grabbed you."

The words should be reassuring, but they aren't. They sarcastic, cold, and they cut deeper than the pain and chill can go. These types of digs are familiar. Not good enough, never serious enough. Always a joke and never anyone's first choice.

"They're real, and they're fabulous," she mumbles. It's ridiculous and completely nonsensical, but she's too tired to fight back. She's been fighting for so long, and it never makes a difference, why should she care with this man thinks.

"We both work for Stark Industries, Miss Lewis." His voice is closer now. Darcy lifts her head to find him staring at her, his features hidden in shadow. "I've noticed you on the bus before, and in the lobby. I don't think this was a random snatch and grab. They knew what they were doing."

It's all too jumbled and illogical to process. Tainted meat, strange men wearing plaid, and cold, dark cells with crickets. This isn't how the night was supposed to go. Hot dogs, reality TV, and the last of a horded bottle of wine. Maybe a bath. Not God knows where, locked in a room one tenth the size of her studio.

"I don't suppose they left us a TV or a stack of books," she asks plaintively. She's never longed for the place that substitutes for home. Suddenly, the old scratched porcelain in the bathroom seems like a luxury.

"Jug of water and a box of crackers. Would you like one?"

He's stilted and formal, maybe over compensating for the strange situation they've been thrown into. Darcy stops short of together, as there is no together in this. He's a stranger, and there's no guarantee that he didn't have something to do with her ending up in this mess to begin with. For now, it's better to keep arms distance, literally. At least until she can get a better handle on what is really going on.

"Water would be great, thanks." Darcy sits up, turning slowly so that she can swing her legs over the edge of the cot. It takes a few minutes to stabilize, fighting down the bile that churns dangerously in her stomach. Only once she's sure that whatever remains of her hot dog won't come up, she leans forward, arm extended with her palm up. "I'm Darcy, by the way."

"Darcy Lewis, I know," the man says, then quickly amends. "You still have your bag hanging from your sweater." He leans forward, balance a small cup in his hand, but he never breaks her gaze. In the direct light, his eyes are a piercing, stormy blue. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."

She accepts the water, drinking slowly. It's cold and slightly tangy, like the stream that ran through Girl Scout camp when she was in elementary school.

"Thanks, Steve," she says, drinking slowly. "Sorry they tainted your meat, too."

 


	2. Laughter

It all starts out innocently enough.

One bold belly laugh, issuing forth from a young woman with strong features and a big smile. It's not full eye contact, no, more like a glance, but it's enough to sink the hook deep.

Steve spends the rest of the day smiling, something he hasn't done in a long time.

He can't describe the owner of the laugh, but he knows the sound anywhere. It pops up again on his bus ride home, then again in line to buy gum from the Newsstand on Park and 63rd, and yet again in the lobby at Stark Industries. She woman smiles, fist bumping the security guard at the badge checkpoint. He waves her by without ever glancing at the laminated tag that swings back and forth from a belt loop.

Everywhere Steve turns, the mystery woman is there, smiling and laughing like she doesn't have a care in the world. Sometimes it's a giggle, other times a guffaw, but always heartfelt and completely carefree. The warmth of it settles over him like the hugs his mother plied him with when he was little. Those are the closest he ever came to untarnished, honest moments of pure joy.

Steve tries to carry the laughter through his days, naively believing that they will take an edge off the monotony that is his life. He attends meetings, covering off on all the duties that make up his fictional existence. In a modern era, where weaponry and commerce are joined at the hip, no one would suspect a former Army officer acting as a consultant for Stark Industries. Funded by a generous salary that provides some semblance of a normal life, Steve is trying hard to create a new life. He rents a one-bedroom apartment in Red Hook, buying clothes and books, drawing supplies and furniture. Trying to fit in, he commutes like everyone else, even going so far as taking the bus into work like other inhabitants of the outer boroughs. There's nothing linking him to the legend of Captain America, and the last name Rogers is common enough that no one even stops to make the connection. He's hiding in plain sight, completely off the radar.

For the first time ever, he's capable of living a normal life. No illness, no rules, no one hovering over his shoulder to make sure he's okay, or that he's doing the right thing.

Unfortunately, there's a difference between trying and doing. The endless meetings and reports fill time, and there are pockets of time occupied by Nat, but the spaces are too few and far between. Without work, there are gaping stretches of nothing, and Steve doesn't know how to fill them.

The mystery woman fills those little gaps with her infectious laugh, stoking the embers of curiosity. Soon, she's a fixation, a necessary part of his day. If he misses her on the bus, or in the fifth floor dining area, the day drags on.

Soon, glimpses aren't enough. Steve needs to know more. He's not as naïve as he once was, and is willing to use the tools which had once been so foreign to him. A quick smile, followed by a few innocent questions posed to the right assistant (or five) provides everything he could ever need to know. Darcy Lewis. Age, twenty-four. A recent hire in the Applied Sciences Division at the recommendation of Dr. Eric Selvig They have lunch together once a week, always at the same table. They laugh and joke like old friends, but the posture on Dr. Selvig's part is purely paternal. He walks beside her, hand at her back like a doting older brother.

Steve collects information about Darcy the way spies horde intel. He catalogs her smiles and her laugh. He learns the name of her favorite security guard, and knows she wears a silver band on her left thumb. Her favorite gum is strawberry, and on Fridays she buys the paper for the bus ride home, where she'll do the crossword in ink.

_She's an optimist,_  Steve realizes one rainy afternoon. He's two rows behind her, watching as she stares out the window. Her gaze is soft, attention lost on something in the distance.  _She probably looks out there and sees potential. She's still idealistic enough to believe in good. That's why she laughs so much._

It doesn't take much for him to remember that he was like that once, a long time ago, when everything in the world had been so much simpler.

**O-O**

For a little while, hovering around the edges is enough. It's probably easier because he keeps to himself, escaping the nods and callouts that colleagues easily share with each other. The isolation is intentional, reinforced by seventy missing years. Common idioms, references, and modern social nuances are not easily learned. Without a consistent network to test and refine his social skills, it's easier to fade into the woodwork and keep to himself.

While he's always aware of Darcy, capable of picking her out of a crowd easily, Steve isn't so familiar with her routine that the sudden pop-ups aren't a complete delight. In fact, those surprise sightings are currently jockeying with her laughter for the highest position of esteem. It's creepy, and maybe even borderline inappropriate, but his days have stopped running together in an endless, monotonous blur anymore. It's enough to lighten the burden, and lessen any guilt associated with following a woman who doesn't know he exists.

**O-O**

Summer Fridays are a funny thing at Stark Tower. After lunch, people begin to get antsy, extending their social interactions to the point of being completely ineffective. By four, the exodus toward the elevators borders on a mad rush, everyone excited to start their weekend. Talk of beaches and barbecues fill the hallways, as ties and high heels are shed for more practical summertime apparel. With the crush of activity, it's easy for Steve to watching, unnoticed, from a sunny corner of the lobby. He leans against a pillar, enjoying the warmth on his neck and shoulders. The lightness is slowly seeping into his body, loneliness temporarily lifted by Darcy's laughter. She's twenty feet away, talking to a small dark haired woman, her hands waving wildly as if to reinforce a point. When she does laugh, Steve smiles reflexively. It's impossible not to.

"She's cute."

Steve jerks around. Jim Rhodes has slipped up beside him, smiling innocently.

"Colonel," Steve says, instantly snapping to attention. Darcy still hovers in his peripheral vision, slinging her huge bag over her shoulder. It's full of junk, books and scraps of paper, endless packs of gum, plus her usual Friday newspaper. Why she needs such a big bag is beyond him, but that isn't anything new or different when it comes to the enigma that is Darcy Lewis.

"Captain," he replies. There's always a subtext with Jim Rhodes, the hint of a smile or exasperation lurking just below the surface. After years as Tony Stark's proverbial wing man, the conditioning makes sense, but Steve's never quite sure how to respond to the man. "Who's the girl?"

This is a slippery slope – one which sends Steve scrambling for the safety of military structure. Technically, Jim Rhodes outranks him, and even though Steve is no longer in the Army, he still owes the other man the deference of rank, even if this is something which has no bearing on military or Stark operations. Additionally, in the formal structure of Stark Industries, he and Rhodes are peers, which makes the whole interaction that much more awkward.

He watches as Darcy moves slowly toward the door, her bag knocking heavily against her hip.

"She's an assistant in Applied Sciences, Sir." Steve's playing with the words, hoping to form something cogent. He's painfully aware of how he must sound to others – the stilted formality of his words alienating and a little bit elitist. She's a neighbor."

"Steve, I told you when no one else is around, it's okay to call me Rhodey."

"Yes, Sir," Steve says, the response instinctive. Nicknames are uncomfortable, implying a nonexistent familiarity. While Colonel Rhodes is an admirable soldier and an intelligent man, he has no established loyalty to Steve, and therefore, trusting him with too much personal information could be problematic. Furthermore, there's been no discussion with Stark about what Rhodes does or does not know.

"So the girl," Rhodes says; he's not going to let it go. "She have a name?"

"Darcy Lewis."

"Yeah, nice." Rhodes nods absently, watching as people flock from the building. "She know you have a crush on her?"

He's gone before Steve can respond, consumed in the crush of bodies.

**O-O**

On the bus ride home, Steve stares out the window as the last fifteen months flow over him. The journey past shock and grief were all consuming for too long. It wasn't until the Tesseract and the Avengers Initiative that it even felt like he had a reason to try to lead a normal life.

After that, after facing his own humanity, and that of the people he's come to think of as his friends, Steve began to make an effort. He buys groceries and tries to make dinner. His clothes are clean and his apartment is neat, but at the end of the day, outside of Cap, nothing Steve does means a damn thing in the grander scheme of things. It's like he only matters one tenth of the time. The rest, he might as well not even exist.

Maybe that's why he's so fascinated by Darcy Lewis. She seems to be everything he's not - vivacious, full of hope, and ready to embrace what comes next. It's doubtful that she ever goes home to an empty apartment or wonders what comes next – not when it seems like everyone knows her name and goes out of their way to say hello.

The bus slows, wedging in between cabs and box trucks as it approaches Steve's stop. Darcy gets off here, too, but she always heads off in a different direction, usually jabbering away to one of a myriad of friends. Unlike him, she probably has a weekend filled with activity and friends, a weekend where, if she didn't show up, people would miss her.

The thought of another weekend alone is stifling. He's been given a second chance, but as Nat tries to remind him, this can hardly be called living. Steve's following a script, just like after the serum. All he'd gained from it was a set of tights and a set of lines he can still recite perfectly.

_But you did go off script once,_  he reminds himself.  _You made a decision and went with it, and it turned out fine. Why should this be any different?_   _It's not like you're going to die if she shoots you down._

It's right then and there that he resolves to talk to Darcy – to see if he can figure out what it is about the woman that's so fascinating. Maybe, by doing that, he can release the hook she's set in him, and take back some control. Or maybe, just maybe, there's something more to be found.

When the bus lets them off in Red Hook, Steve doesn't turn left toward home. He follows Darcy across the avenue to a street vendor, trying to figure out what the hell he's going to say. He hangs back, watching as orders two franks and a soda.

Their eyes make contact, and he's the first one to smile, but it's returned quickly. Like a subtle nudge in the ribs, Steve steps forward, claiming the space open next to her at the cart.

"I'll have the same thing," he says to the cart vendor, then adds as an afterthought. "But extra onions, please." It's been ages since he's had a hot dog, might as well do it right.

"I hope you have Tic-Tacs," she says, taking a large bit of her hot dog. "Love these things, but hello toxic Godzilla breath." Her voice is deeper than most women, and slightly nasal, and he's desperate to hear more.

"No such luck," Steve admits. He's closer than he's ever been, and he's grasping for every little detail be can find. There's a small small dimple in her chin, which softens her features and turns Darcy a bit more girlish. She's not traditionally pretty, nor is she exotic like some of the women he sees flying through Stark Towers, but there's something about her, something vibrant that screams life and vitality.

"Dude," Darcy says, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. "You've got mustard right-" she crooks her index finger at the corner of her mouth, and gently nudges up toward her nose.

Steve swipes absently at his face with the back of his hand. It earns him another smile, which is quickly hidden behind a soda can. He follows lead, downing the soda in three nervous gulps.

The edges of his vision start to blur, a gray fog folding in tightly around him. Everything tilts, everything but Darcy, and somehow, Steve realizes that he's falling, and she's right behind him. There's no time to grab her hand, or slip his arm around her waist.

There's the hard jolt of pavement against his shoulder, and then everything goes black.

**O-O**

Steve keeps his eyes closed for a long while after the fog wears off. No one needs to tell him that he's coming down off some sort of drug induced stupor. He's been through enough different medical treatments as a child to recall the haze of morphine. Waking up after the crash felt the same, like pushing up through cold water, the light growing brighter until it was too painful to do anything other than squint.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve waits for the fog to recede. In the darkness, strange sounds wrap around him, revealing little nuggets of information. The deep, low rattle of air through a ventilation system from somewhere overhead. To his left, the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone in deep sleep.

It's like being in the cages all over again, pulling Dum Dum and Jacques and the others out of their tiny cells. How many men had he freed from situations like this? It was always different though, for he was the one on the outside, never having to feel the chill of the concrete against his back and legs. Slowly, Steve slides up the wall, his hands flat against the pitted wall. He knows the dimensions, the makeup, before truly taking everything in.

Blank walls. A low bunk. A bucket in the corner to capture waste.

Those are the things he knows, that he expects, and Steve's oddly grateful to fall back on the knowledge as his eyes adjust enough to take in his cellmate. She's pale, but the full lips and dark hair have filled enough of spare thoughts to be immediately recognizable. Darcy is curled into a small ball, one hand balled into a fist under her chin. It's not light enough to catalogue for injuries, but her steady breathing is a small comfort. She's not in distress, at least not anything that's apparent, and it's enough for now.

Steve sinks down to the floor, his arms draping over his knees as his head drops. He's replaying everything, grasping for nuggets of information, anything that will shed some light on where they are. There are flashes – talking to Darcy, the spicy tang of mustard, bubbles tickling his nose, but not enough to form a detailed picture.

Most importantly, this can't be about him, or at least, not about Captain America. If it were, it's doubtful that Darcy would be here. There is no established connection to Darcy Lewis – not in either of his lives.

In fact, outside of a handful of people, no one knows that he exists. Which means that this could just as much be about Darcy Lewis as it could be about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's an excellent Darcy Lewis gift exchange - sign ups are open through 8/12 - get [there](http://goingonfacebook.livejournal.com/796.html#comments) now and partake in the awesome!


	3. Strawberry

They sit in silence for what feels like an age, the silence stretching over awkward distances where neither knows what to say. With nowhere to focus, there are awkward moments of eye contact, usually initiated by Steve. Darcy is the first one to break away, hiding behind her hair or twisting to stare up in the corner.

He wonders if she's looking for spiders, or maybe it's just easier to stare at the corner than look at him. She's not curled up in a ball anymore, but her body language is still defensive, arms close to her body as if ready to fight. The question is, who is she worried about fighting, him, or someone else?

A high pitched hiss, followed by two quick pops echo off the concrete walls. They're both on their feet, staring toward the heavy metal door at the end of the room, but it's pointless. As soon as the second pop completes, the room plunges into darkness.

"This shit is really getting old," Darcy mumbles. There's a whomp, and the rustling of cotton on cotton. In his mind, she's scooting backwards against the wall, knees up against her chest. When scared, it's human nature to slip into self-preservation mode. Darcy Lewis wouldn't be human if she didn't. Then again, there's a part of Steve that hopes she's scared, if for nothing more than a chance to save her.

It's a far cry from the nobility that Stark likes to hang around his neck like a harness. For a fleeting moment, it feels good to feel human, to be selfish and want something that lies just out of his reach. Light deprivation doesn't scare him, especially when he's been through worse. Without that fear, he should be focusing on a solution that will get them out safely, not being a hero just for the sake of impressing Darcy Lewis.

"Why do they keep doing that?" Her voice is different in the dark, huskier and distinctly more feminine. Steve's sure that she's licking her lips, too. It's a nervous habit, one that he never noticed before. Next time the lights came up, he'd be willing to bet there's a small ring just below her lower lip, the skin red and chapped as the time wore on.

"There are multiple reasons for light deprivation," Steve's reply is instinctive, and he knows that he sounds cold, but he's not going to lie to her. "One, it throws off our body clocks. If they mess with our sleep patterns, the less likely we are to know if it's night or day, Friday or Sunday. It makes it easier to manipulate us."

"And the second?"

"They're trying to wear us down."

"Light torture, huh?" The sheet rustles again. "Seems kind of passive aggressive to me."

"Not all torture is overt," Steve says. His gaze is fixed on the ground, but it's hard not to smile. She's trying to be tough, to put on a brave front, but there were enough little tells to give her away.

"What do you remember?" he asks. Conversation keeps the other thoughts at bay, the ones where he comes blazing through as a hero. Now wasn't the time to be bold.

"Mustard on your nose," she says. "Not very helpful, is it?"

"Not particularly. Any idea on where we might be?"

"Not a clue. I was actually hoping you might know."

"Why would I?" It comes out more defensive than intended, the byproduct of this elaborate dual identity. Sometimes, Steve can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be easier to live like Tony does, his identity on display for the whole world to see. Then again, Steve isn't Tony. The spotlight was a heavy enough mantle when the world was easier, he can't even begin to fathom what it would be like now. Trading cards would just be the start.

"You woke up before I did," Darcy says. "I thought maybe you heard something."

"Nope." Steve relaxes a little bit. He's hates that he's become so cynical, expecting a threat or the worst out of people. He's also just a little bit impressed. She's keeping a level head, even if she is worrying her lips raw. "The lights were out, so I focused on sounds. Other than the ventilation system, there wasn't much to pick up on."

His eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and Steve can pick out Darcy's silhouette. She's leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. As he breathes deeply, he can just pick up the final traces of her perfume.  _At least she's not scared of me_.

"How many bites did you take?" she demands.

"Beg pardon?"

"You're dog," Darcy says, sighing heavily. "How many bites did you take?"

"Just one."

She rocks forward, and Steve wishes he could see her face. He wants to know what she's thinking, how she's processing all of this without falling apart. The mystery that is Darcy Lewis is growing, layer by layer. Talking to her is supposed to diminish the curiosity, not increase it. Unlike other women, she's sharp, aware of her surroundings. That means he needs to proceed with caution, not just with the situation, but with her, too.

There's a slow knot building in his chest, fueled by the realization that he really can't be himself. Not here, not anywhere.

"How about your soda?" She's fixating on the details now, picking everything apart in an attempt to find an answer.

"Most of it." Steve can remember snippets, like polishing off the can, hiding behind it while he fumbled for something to say. "You think that's what took us down?"

"Has to be. No way one bite of a hot dog could work that fast on me, let alone someone twice my size. Sodas, on the other hand, easy to dose, faster to act. The question is why?"

Darcy's leaning closer, legs swinging back and forth like a child.

"You feeling better now?"

A low, heavy rumble tears through the room, followed by a blast of cold air. It slams down hard, the wind tearing at clothes and hair.

"As if the dark and the damp weren't enough," Darcy calls over the roar, and for the first time, she actually sounds worried. "It's colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra in here."

"That's an interesting idiom," Steve says. He stands, acting without thinking. His shirt is torn and dirty, but she needs it more than he does. The buttons are quick work, the tails jerking free from his khakis. "Here." he extends his arm into the darkness. "I'm sorry that it's not clean, but it will keep you a little bit warmer."

"What is it?"

"My shirt. You take it."

"What about you?"

"It's okay, I run warm." He's heard other men say it before, back in…well, back when they were stuck in the rain and the cold, and no one really worried that much about blasts of air ripping through thin canvas. Cold is tolerable, it's the damp and the loneliness that hurt the most.

When she does finally take his shirt, her fingers are ice cold against the back of his hand.

"Thank you," she says, voice soft enough that it's barely discernable. Another thing to catalog away, the way the timbre of her voice shifts to match her mood. "I'm sorry if I was short before."

"It's okay." He settles back against the wall, the familiar chill a welcome edge to the warmth that fills his chest. "It's not like either of us has been in this spot before."

They sit in the dark, listening as the cold air filters into their small cell.

**O-O**

"What do you do at Stark?"

The lights have flickered off and on a few more times, just a quick minute tease before crashing them back into darkness. The water is down to just a few sips, and there's nothing left to do but sit and wait for whatever comes next.

"I'm a contractor," Steve says, reciting the line just as he's was coached.

"What division?"

"Weaponry. You?"

"Applied Sciences," she says. "What do you do in Weaponry?"

"I'm a military liaison."

Darcy's laughter is unexpected, bouncing off the walls like a child's ball.

"Is there something funny about my job?"

"No," she says, still chucking. "It's just…you're so proper, all ironed and neat. I would've guessed you're an accountant, or a lawyer, or something."

Steve smiles in the dark, imagining the ribbing he'd take from Tony. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

Darcy laughs again, louder this time, and for just a fraction of a second, all feels right in Steve's world. It can't be all bad when there are sounds like this. After a minute, he realizes it's not the sound, it's the fact that he's the one making Darcy laugh. So many times listening to her, and yet he's never inserted himself in the situation, thinking about what it would be like to be the one initiating that amazing sound. "Well, with your job, odds are whoever grabbed us has more interest in you than me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm a nobody," Darcy replies. "Just an assistant in one of the labs. It's not like I'm into all the covert stuff like you are."

"It depends," he counters, instinctively deflecting from his role. Covert, even if unintentional in use, hits to close to home. "What lab are you in?"

"Astrophysics."

Blinding light splits the dark, fluorescents roaring to life and filling the room just as the door wrenches open. Steve and Darcy are both on their feet, but he's faster, stepping to the front, body turned to block her from harm. It earns him the butt of a gun in the stomach and another across the back of his head. Before he can rebound, Darcy's jerked forward, her feet skidding across the pavement.

"Steve!" She shrieks, her arm extended back, reaching for him. Before he can grab for her, there's another gun butt to his face, squarely across the bridge of his nose again. He feels the bone shatter, pain blinding for just a moment before his body roars to life. The cartilage is knitting back together before he's on his feet, but it's enough time for the guard to slip out the door. It slips shut with a deafening click.

Then the lights are gone, and everything is dark again.

**O-O**

The cell, cramped and barely manageable with two people, becomes claustrophobic alone. Steve paces back and forth, counting the steps over and over again. His hands roam the walls, searching each little pit for a weak point, some ingress that will provide a way out. The concrete is old - age betrayed by small pockmarks and empty screw holes. This room had multiple uses before the current incarnation, but the marks hold their secrets, giving forth nothing more than the fact that there was something here before them.

Steve works his way back into the corner, forcing himself into the sliver of space behind the suspended cot. There's a small damp spot where water has seeped through the foundation. The masonry there is softer and grainy, weakened from years of pressure. He continues to feel his way along the wall – there are similar spots, scattered intermittently and varying in size from a few inches to one or two spots as large as a foot wide. Steve's not sure what to make of it yet, but he files the information away, and continues his exploration.

One foot is on the cot, and he's grasping the suspension chain for balance when the fluorescent lights blaze to life. Before the door can swing up, Steve drops onto the cot, the thin mattress flexing and shooting out a blast of dust under the impact.

He affects a posture of self-defeat, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides as Darcy enters the room, one arm draped around a guard's neck. Her feet drag beneath her, slipping and sliding as she's dragged forward into the cell. A second guard stands in the doorway, gun ready and at the alert. Steve is too, and he knows what to look for. The guard dragging Darcy moves with precise, efficient motions, but he's sloppy, turning his back to Steve multiple times. There's a handgun holstered on his right hip, the loop designed to secure the weapon safely in place hanging free. It's a rookie mistake, but presents an opportunity that Steve might be able to use later on.

Fighting instinct is not easy for Steve, and it's all he can do to hang back, waiting on the cot as the guard drops Darcy at the other end of the cot. A quick once over sparks an irrational rage, the kind he's not felt in ages. She's still wearing his shirt, but one sleeve is spliced from shoulder to cuff, and hangs free in tatters. Her shirtsleeve is torn in the same manner, and the nasty purple ring forming on the inside of her forearm is hard to miss.

"You okay?" he leans forward, trying to bring himself to eye level. The guard whirls around, hand on his pistol.

"Back off," the man at the door barks. He's drawn his gun, leveling the barrel directly at Steve's chest.

Steve sits up, hands raised in supplication. He wants to take down both of these men, and he knows it would be so easy, but only solves for one of a dozen problems in the grand scheme. Without knowing what lies beyond the door, there's no guarantee that he or Darcy would get anywhere, especially not with the condition she's in. He could carry her out easily, but if it came to fighting more than these two buffoons, he'd be putting Darcy at risk. It keeps Steve from acting for now. He waits, hands elevated in compliance until the door closes and the lights dun again.

"Yay," Darcy says weakly. "They left the night light on."

Her speech is slurred, and she drops awkwardly to the side, her arms splaying out across the cot. Steve gently pushes the shredded cotton of his shirt back from her forearm.

"Hi honey," she mumbles, drawing out the world into multiple syllables. "Did you miss me?"

"What'd they do to you?"

She sighs, and turns her face into the mattress. "I told them I didn't like needles. They didn't care much. Or maybe they didn't listen. Guys are like that."

Steve runs his fingers over the tender skin of her forearm, raising gooseflesh. Darcy's skin isn't hot, it's not even warm, but that might not mean anything. He's a bit out of his depth when it comes to drugs and viruses, or anything medical, for that matter.

"I asked if I could have a lollipop after." She sighs heavily. "I don't like needles."

She's a mess, her words slurring together and nonsensical. There will be no useful information at this point, better to wait for whatever she's on to wear off. Hopefully Darcy will remember what they asked of her, or maybe even what she saw.

"You're okay now," he promises. "And when we get out, I'll buy you a lollipop. I promise."

Darcy rolls onto her side and smiles, her eyes half closed. The injured arm stays close to her chest, one hand wrapped protectively around her wrist. "A red one?"

"Strawberry." He meant to ask it as a question, as in do you like strawberry, but it comes out declarative.

The smile grows, and Darcy wrinkles her nose. "I love strawberry."

_I know._

She sighs, and closes her eyes. The low light casts long shadows across the planes of her face, robbing her of all her fire and life. Steve slips down, off the cot, so that he can sit on the floor in front of her. When Darcy doesn't move, he takes her hand. Her fingers are cold, but they fit neatly inside the fold of his palm.

"Hmmm," she murmurs, eyes still closed. "I'm sorry about your shirt. Was it your favorite?"

"No."

"That's too bad. It brings out your eyes. You have pretty eyes." She sighs again, and shifts onto her side. It brings them close to eye level, and she stares at him for a long time.

"Why do guys always have killer eyelashes?"

Steve doesn't move as she reaches out, index finger tracing the fringe of his lashes. Her skin is ghostly pale, the map of her veins easily visible under her skin. She reminds him of the porcelain dolls that lined the windows of the expensive shops in London, their big eyes and rosy cheeks a stark contrast to their ivory skin.

"I bet yours bump your sunglasses lenses. It's not fair. Women pay top dollar for that shit."

She's rambling, the drug or drugs working through her system, crushing any inhibitions.

_Only drugs would do this,_  Steve thinks. It has to be drugs, and not something worse. Once they get out of this, he'll insist that Bruce review all her tests and toxicology reports. A full work up, including a second opinion. It's the least he can do.

"Why did you think I was an accountant?" It's been bugging him, and this is probably his only chance for an honest answer. It feels a bit cheap, but an honest answer isn't likely to come any other time.

Darcy's breathing has slowed, and for a minute, he wonders if she's slipped off into sleep, but then she licks her lips and sighs heavily.

"Because you're so polished," she says lazily. "With your pressed clothes and your shiny shoes and your perfect hair. Not flashy, but polished." She leans forward, placing her head on Steve's hand like it's a pillow. "You're the kind of guy I secretly crushed on in high school but never had the stones to talk to."

He's not familiar with the term "stones," but it doesn't take much of a leap to make a guess at the reference. Her language is colorful, and borderline crass, but it's refreshing. She's not pretending to be something she's not, at least it doesn't seem that way. So many of the people at work put on airs, speaking differently based on who they're engaging with, but it doesn't seem that Darcy has that same tendency. Everything about her seems real.

"Why's that?"

She yawns, and leans forward, her forehead pressing against their linked hands. "Different tables in the lunch room, different spots on the bus. You know how it works - you're you and I'm me, and ne'er the twain shall meet."

He lets Darcy drift off into sleep, marveling at the irony of their situation and the fact that, in the real world, he was getting up to walk over to her table when this whole mess started.

 


	4. Warmth

When Darcy was little, she liked to crack open her bedroom window, letting the cold December air slip into her room. As the temperature dropped, she burrow into the covers, savoring the contrast between the warmth of her little nest and the crisp winter chill. It was bliss, right up until nature called. The sprint to the bathroom was always agony, the floorboards like shards of razor sharp ice against her hot skin.

As much as it hurt, she still cracked her window open every night. The warmth was simply too delicious to give up.

What she wouldn't give for a bit of that right now. The cot is hard, and the scrap of sheet too thin to provide any type of insulating barrier. Darcy's wrapped in a torn shirt, sealing in what little body heat she can, but it's nowhere near enough. Her fingers and toes throb, jostling with her head for first place on the jackhammer abuse list.

"This sucks," Darcy says. The room doesn't respond. Apparently, it's her turn alone in the dark. Sleep isn't an option, and so she's been losing herself in odd fragments - old memories wedged in between factual moments, none of it making any sense.

She remembers the other room, more like an office than a cell, with an old-fashioned office chair and the kind of heavy canvas restraints used in fifties spy movies. It wasn't until after she'd been strapped in that the syringe appeared - filled with an ominous, clear liquid. Her struggle had been might, but useless. When the strange man jabbed the syringe in her arm, he'd smiled at her, his tongue peeking through the gap in his front teeth.

Everything after that comes in broken flashes. A guard, leering at her from the doorway when she was left to urinate. He'd rubbed his crotch and smiled.

The bile rose in her throat, followed by hot tears.

She was completely and utterly alone.

**O-O**

The door groaning open on swollen, little used hinges, startles Darcy out of a strange fugue state. The guards stand sentinel, rifles at the ready.

The dialogue line flashes through her memory, unbidden –  _this is your rifle, this is your gun, this one's for shooting, this one's for fun_ , but it's lost as Steve stumbles into the cell. He's a mess, t-shirt dirty, hair falling across his forehead in a sweaty tumble of gold.

The door slams shut behind them.

Steve stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Miss me?"

The accent, noticeable before, is stronger now. Odd pronunciation of his vowels, harsh  _a's_  that sound more like  _ah_. It's very east coast – maybe New York or New Jersey. She hasn't quite learned how to isolate Brooklyn from Bayonne, even though everyone swears there's a difference.

"My life isn't complete without you." Darcy sits up slowly, her head still heavy and sore. "You get jabbed?"

Steve shakes his head. There's still a small gash over his nose, other than that, he doesn't bear any of the physical marks that she does. "Makes me wonder if I'm the loose end. They peppered me with questions about the tower, but no threat of needles. If I had to guess is they're just trying to fill in blanks until they get what they want out of you."

He drops down on the cot next to her, slumping back against the wall. Without the polish, he looks like any other guy, tired and mildly frustrated after a long day. It takes a bit of the edge off, making him the tiniest bit more approachable.

"How you doing?" she asks, trying hard for a clichéd New York accent, but it sounds ridiculous.

Steve smiles, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. Even with the layers of dirt and sweat, he's impossibly good looking. Sure he's a bit stiff, but once the rod was removed from his ass, he's turned into a good guy. Noble, even. Most guys fall short of that in a normal situation, let alone in this train wreck of an adventure.

"More emphasis on the  _you_ , drop the g," he says. "How  _you_  doin'? And I'm fine, thank you. A little tired, but no worse for wear."

"Glad one of us is," Darcy says, pulling his shirt in tighter around her body. "I'm freezing my ass off."

Steve closes his eyes and modifies his breathing – deep inhalation through the nose, followed by the long, slow release of air through his mouth. He's slumped low, body limp in either defeat or exhaustion. "Wish I had another shirt to give you." He tugs on the dirty, white cotton of his t-shirt. "But I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy."

"You've already scarified one for the cause." Darcy leans back against the wall next to him. When she glances to the right, Steve's eyes are still closed, his breathing even. "Here, you stretch out. I've been a total bed hog."

"No," he says, catching her arm before she can move. His fingers are warm where they encircle her wrist like a bracelet. "I'm okay like this."

"Bullshit. When's the last time you slept?"

"That's a subjective question."

"Well I'm a black and white kind of girl."

"Bossy is more like it." Steve leans to the side, allowing his body to slump down onto the cot. Instead of letting go, Steve tightens the grasp on Darcy's wrist, dragging her toward him. With his back pressed against the wall, there's more than enough space for two. "Stay with me," he says, the words blending together in a tired slur. "I really hate the cold, and you can keep that away."

Darcy tries to mimic Steve's shape, bending her knees and pressing her back against his chest. He wraps one arm around her, pulling her into an embrace, and soon enough, his breathing is slow and steady. Even though she's exhausted, Darcy can't follow him into sleep. She's suddenly too aware of everything.

Who's holding them, and what do they want?

Why did they drug her and not him?

How will this end?

She floats like this for an unknown amount of time, playing mental what ifs. When the ventilation system roars to life, she's grateful for the warmth of Steve's body against hers. For the first time since they've ended up in this mess, Darcy actually feels safe.

**O-O**

Waking up wrapped in an embrace is a strange enough occurrence in regular life, and for just a minute, Darcy allows herself to pretend that portions of this situation aren't real. With her eyes closed, Steve's arm is solid and safe around her waist. She ignores the sour breath that tickles her neck, remembering mornings after and breath made ripe by beer and pizza. There have been very few real men in her life, let alone the kind who stay and cuddle, not caring where the wet spot is or making excuses about why it's time to go. It's been months, even years since without any level of real intimacy. It's nice to be touched, not fucked, but touched. She's missed that.

Steve shifts in his sleep, hips pressing into the small of her back, driving the edge of something sharp into soft skin. Shifting doesn't work. The minute she moves, Steve moves with her, his arm tightening around her middle. Part of her wants to make smart alec comments about morning salutes and easy soldier, but somehow, it doesn't seem right.

"Steve?"

"Hmmm?" his voice is raspy, breath is warm against her skin.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but what's in your pocket?"

"Hmm?" he says again, his face burrowed into her neck. He's still half-asleep and not giving up their shared warmth easily.

"This," she says, and bucks back, her rear making contact with his hips. Steve releases her and rolls away, his hand fumbling between them.

"I completely forgot," he says, and holds out his hand, revealing a small, black rectangular object, probably the most beautiful thing Darcy's ever seen in her life. "One of the guards had him on it when they took me in for interrogation. I knocked him around a bit, let him do the same, and in the process, managed to slip it in my pocket."

"So that explains the manhandling."

"If the phone works, it's entirely worth it." Steve depresses the power button, waiting for the screen to flare to life. Darcy's heart slams against her chest, the heavy, rhythmic pounding loud in her ears. Five seconds pass, then ten.

When the screen finally loads, it prompts for a four digit pin code. There's no option to bypass for an emergency call.

"So much for that," Steve says, dropping the phone on the bunk. It's the closest he's sounded to dejected since they ended up here together. "Should have known it was too good to be true."

"Can I see that?" Darcy takes the phone and flips it over. It's a thirty-two pin plug, the make and model as familiar as her face in the mirror. "Buck up, solider. We might not be dead in the water after all."

Her fingers hover over the keypad, running through the options. She'd read an article a while back, talking about hacking pin codes on smart phones. Twenty percent of the phones sampled had one of ten different code combinations. The phone gave her seven options to try before locking her out. There was no certainty, but it was worth a try.

Darcy held the phone up to the light, twisting it to the left and right, studying the smudges on the phone face. There were two clear paths, one horizontal, and one vertical across the screen. The horizontal path matched the lock bar, therefore the most frequently used keys had to follow the vertical stripe.

Taking a deep breath, she plugged in a number sequence.

0-8-5-2

Incorrect pin code flashed on the screen.

0-2-5-8

Incorrect pin code again.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Steve hovers over her shoulder, his brows knit together.

"Some women know clothes. Some women know makeup," Darcy says, her thumbs poised over the tiny screen. "This woman makes technology her bitch."

She types again. 5-8-0-2.

Nothing. Four codes down, three to go.

The next two sequences, all using the same combination of numbers, fail as well. Darcy drops the phone on the cot, and hangs her head. She was so sure that this would be an easy task, and she'd gotten too cocky. Now, with only one try left, she wasn't sure what to do next.

"Why didn't you try 2-5-8-0?"

Steve is still hovering behind her, but he's eyes are fixed on the floor.

"What?"

"The sequences you were trying were all in the same row, but you didn't try 2-5-8-0."

"Yes I did."

Steve glances up, but doesn't make eye contact, his gaze lingering somewhere around her chin. "Nope, I counted six, and they were all different combinations, but not that one."

"Shoulder surfer extraordinaire," Darcy mumbles, scooping up the phone. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment. "It locks after this, so I hope you're right."

She taps the numbers gently, holding her breath as the final digit registers.

There's a flash of motion, and series of icons load on the screen. At the top left corner, the familiar 3G icon appears, followed by a single, tiny bar. An alert pops up in the center of the screen:

10% of battery left.

"May I?" Steve asks, pulling the phone from Darcy's hands. He taps an icon, and begins typing furiously, his hands too large for the tiny screen.

"What are you doing?" Darcy demands, leaning forward to see the screen. Steve's in email the email app, crafting a message. "Who's Jarvis?"

"Not a who, a what," Steve says, head down. "It's the security application for team at Stark. They'll be able to get a lock on this signal. It will help them figure out where we are, and then get us out."

"Why not call the police?"

"And tell them what? We're being held somewhere, but we don't know where or by who? Just the hoops they have to jump through to trace the call will take days. This will be faster and more productive."

He continues to type, a deep line forming in between his eyebrows. "You don't remember how long the walk was between here and the interrogation room is, do you?"

"I don't know, forty five, fifty feet, maybe?" She's trying to read what he's typing, but he's moved the phone so that she can only see glimpses of the screen. Weak concrete, water damage, Darcy, drugs, two armed guards.

"How long do you think the battery will last if we leave it on?" he asks.

"I don't know, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes if we're careful?"

Steve types a few more lines and hits send. "We're going to wait fifteen minutes," he says, voice steady, "And then we'll turn the phone back on and see what they have to say."

"You really think they're going to react that quickly?"

"I know they will," he says calmly. The color has returned to his cheeks, and the cut on his nose doesn't appear anywhere near as angry as it had just hours earlier. "If everything goes the way I think, we should be out of here in two or three hours, worst case."

She doesn't ask him about best case, because she doesn't believe his worst.

**O-O**

Fifteen minutes passes at a glacier's pace. Neither of them speaks, nor do they move. Instead, Darcy counts down in her head while Steve goes back to his slow breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily. Nine hundred seconds comes and goes, and he doesn't pick up the phone. Nine hundred and sixty, then one thousand and twenty seconds pass before Steve makes a move. He depresses the tab at the top, waiting for the screen to roar back to life.

Just like he said, there's a response waiting.

_Captain Rogers – An extraction team has mobilized. Leave the phone on and move as far inside the building as possible, away from any external walls. Miss Lewis's team has been notified that she has been found. We will keep them apprised. Communication, if necessary, will follow in written form._

"This message will self-destruct in five seconds," Darcy says ominously.

"No it won't." Steve lays a hand protectively over the phone, his blue eyes wide. "Why would you say that?"

"It's a joke," she says defensively. "Jeez, Mission Impossible, get it?"

Steve stands, and slips the phone into his pocket. "We need to move." He's all business now, structured and logical, the rod firmly back up his ass.

"What are they going to do, come blasting through the wall?" Darcy digs her heels in. He's been a jerk since the phone came online, and honestly, at this point, she'd be perfectly happy to get out of here and be done with him for good. She didn't ask for this to happen, and she sure as hell didn't want some GI Joe to be mixed up in all of this with her.

_This is why I never found military men attractive._

They wait for another ten minutes, then Steve checks the phone again.

_Team approaching. Take to an inside wall, covering head and neck._

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Darcy demands.

Steve grabs her by the wrist, whipping her across the room. She's up against the door so fast that there's no time to protest, Steve's chest pressed firmly against her back. His arms form a protective bracket on each side of her head, effectively sheltering her from behind.

"What the-"

There's a loud explosion, and rock and clumps of dirt slamming into the walls around them. With her ear pressed firmly against the door, Darcy can hear shouts, people pounding on the door and screaming in a language she can't understand. Light filters in through the dust, the warm glow of the late August sun.


	5. Daylight

It's funny how a disembodied voice attaches mentally to the written word. Jarvis's message is short, just a handful of lines, but in Steve's imagination it's spoken in proper British, right down to the deferential use of "Sir," and "You're welcome."

This is their first real glimmer of hope. There's life outside these four walls, and while it's spun on, both Steve and Darcy have been missed. An escape plan is in the works, ensuring that Steve can get them out without jeopardizing everything he's worked so hard to create. The irony isn't lost on him – his mundane, day-to-day existence is what landed him here in the first place. It's not a thought he can linger on now – there's no time for sentiment, not when there's an end in sight.

Rereading the email, Steve picks up on the details buried in between the lines. They're subtle enough that Darcy, reading over his shoulder, completely misses the callouts. They're going to blast in through the wall, taking advantage of the rotting cement. The structural weakness, combined with the tracking chip in his cellphone, will be the markers, confirming that they have the right spot.

What's interesting, and Steve isn't sure what to make of it, is that there's significant concern, not just over him, but over Darcy Lewis, too. He immediately feels guilty over the strange surge of some foreign emotion that is perilously close to jealousy, but he pushes that to the side. He's obviously missed something important about Darcy. A lab assistant, even one as popular as Darcy is, wouldn't normally show up on the radar at the same level that Steve does. Good, bad, or otherwise, it's plays well into the subterfuge. Interest in Darcy will shift the spotlight off him – allowing him to hide in the shadows for yet another day.

Steve lets his mind go - staging the scene and the different ways it can play out as he calculates potential blast radiuses and threats. There are still their guards, but that issue is easily dealt with by blockading the door. It's far enough away from the blast point, and provides him a reason to create a barrier in front of Darcy, all while holding the door firmly in place. Let's see a dozen police officers accomplish that.

When the second email hits, it's a formality, the digital equivalent of someone shouting  _incoming_  before the bomb lands. As planned, he spins Darcy around, forcing her up against the door, his chest pressed firmly into her back. With forearms braced on either side of her head, the full force of their weight is solid against the door. Chunks of concrete and dirt fly around them, raining down on Steve's back, a few sharp enough to cut cloth and flesh. It hurts, but he'll heal quickly. Steve's body is designed to take this abuse, unlike Darcy's. It doesn't stop her from putting up one hell of a fight.

"Get off of me!" She shouts, and she's wriggling beneath him, angrier than a wet cat. "What the hell's going on?"

For as small as she is, at least relative to Steve, Darcy's elbows are awfully sharp. She hammers his kidneys and slams her head back against his chest. It reminds him of a petulant three year old throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of a department store. Try as she may, Darcy's not going to physically move him, but that doesn't stop her from giving it her all.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe," Steve murmurs, far too low for her to hear. He's numbing his own guilt, torn between stay here and breaking away for freedom. From the other side of the door there are shouts in English and German and another language he can't identify. They start close, but quickly fade, along with bursts of gunfire and more shouting. It's not until the hall is quiet that he allows himself to step back and assess the damage.

Free from his restraint, Darcy spins around, brows furrowed and mouth open for attack. Whatever nasty invective she has is smothered by a fit of coughing. The dust around them is thick, coating everything in a heavy layer of gray. The cot is torn in two, one chunk buried under rubble in the far corner. Light spills through a ragged hole in the far wall, hazy streaks of summer sun cut by shadows as men dressed all in black with tactical assault weapons descend into their cell. The declarations of "in" and "clear" ring through the room in flat, unemotional English.

Steve knows the drill, and anticipates what comes next. This world is familiar to him, but even with that, it's still jarring after days of nothing but…Darcy.

"Captain," one man says – a helmet and pair of heavy goggles completely obscuring his face. Steve could pass him on the street tomorrow and never know who he was. "If you and Miss Lewis would follow me, please." He guides them to the hole, where others are waiting to boost them up. Darcy goes up first, and Steve follows, forcing himself to relax as he's boosted up through the hole. Men above grasp his arms, dragging his limp body up through the hole. Playing possum isn't something he enjoys, but it's easier to feign exhaustion than try to mask his strength.

As Steve's eyes adjust to the hazy afternoon sunlight, he quickly processes the details. They're in a small industrial courtyard, the round space between run down gray buildings filled with sedans and SUV's. Three tactical vans are clustered at the farthest end of the circle, strategically parked to block any line of site from the street. Above them, broken windows are streaked and grimy, with pieces of weathered plastic floating through the holes like ghostly fingers. No one would suspect the activity going on below ground, the guns and the drugs and the people locked away. It's the perfect front, a sleight of hand designed to repel attention. Had he not been the victim of the attack, Steve would have almost respected the subterfuge.

Almost.

At the center of it all, Agent Maria Hill waits, flanked by numerous underlings who scurry back and forth with tablets, cell phones, and other gadgets. Directly behind her is an all too familiar figure, his pale face obscured by sunglasses. It does little to disguise the other, more notable details: shaggy salt and pepper hair and clothes that look slept in. Bruce Banner is the only one of the Avengers readily apparent, although Steve is surprised to see him in this form. There is no telltale flash of gold and red or a streak of black that come with Iron Man or Hawkeye. Either man could have caused the explosion, but without one of them there to claim the damage, Steve isn't sure who deserves the credit.

Bruce is the one to approach, pulling his black glasses off as he strides across the cracked asphalt of the courtyard. The closer he gets, the faster he is moving, arms pumping as he shifts to jog and then to run. He brushes past Steve, cutting an angle towards Darcy, and the glasses clatter to the pavement as he sweeps her up, into a hug. Steve catches it all in his peripheral vision, Darcy all but dissolving in his arms, her knees buckling underneath her as she leans against Bruce for support.

They rock back and forth for a few seconds, Bruce kissing her temple as his hand runs gently up and down her back. Whatever he says is quiet enough to be lost in the wind. When he scoops Darcy up, her body is limp in his arms. He carries her away, out of the destruction and into the back of a waiting car. They're both gone in a flash of taillights as the car speeds out of the courtyard, and Steve can do nothing but watch her go.

Suddenly, his reconnaissance is so ridiculously juvenile that it hurts. How could he miss something this big? Darcy and Bruce Banner – on display for the whole world to see – him kissing her and trying to make it all better. Steve's not sure which part is worse, the fact that he could have been so oblivious to something so important, or that it's with a man whom he likes and respects.

Either way, the knot in his chest is cold and hard, the ache familiar but never welcome.

"Captain?" Agent Hill is calling for him, demanding his attention. Steve turns away, forcing away the visual, even though he knows it will haunt him for a long time to come. No one around Agent Hill reacts as she calls out "Captain" again. To them, it's an innocuous title, one connected with thousands of officers across the four major military branches. He's just another face in the crowd, unremarkable and completely forgettable. "If you'll come with me, the team will finish securing the premises."

Steve resists the urge to glance back at his prison. A sense of foreboding is working hard to dislodge the knot that Darcy and Bruce created. It was all too easy – grabbing the phone, calling for help, even the resistance (or lack thereof). Something more is at play here, something that Steve hasn't quite been able to put his finger on, at least not until now. As he climbs into the back of Agent Hill's car, identical to the one that Darcy and Bruce escaped in, he replays the last few days, reliving the events through a different filter.

Not Darcy Lewis, lab assistant, but Darcy Lewis, person of interest to Bruce Banner.

It's just another title, but it changes absolutely everything.

**O-O**

Agent Hill does not return Steve to Stark Tower. Their driver takes them out of Manhattan, cutting across Long Island on a series of narrower and narrower roads, until they're deep in the middle of nowhere. In the midst of a broad, green field, a chopper waits to ferry them away.

Once onboard, Agent Hill buries herself in her tablet. No one says a word as they fly across the Long Island Sound, which is filled with sailboats and barges, delivering people and goods to and from the city. Steve catches snippets of information over her shoulder – photos from the complex and the aftermath. Three men bound and sitting in the back of the van, heads hung low. Boxes full of computer equipment litter the courtyard. SHIELD will process them all, parsing for bits of information. It's highly doubtful they'll find anything, but this is all standard protocol. Assess the threat, understand the objective, and use that to plan a response. It's what Steve would do in any other situation, and he'd expect no less from Agent Hill and her team.

As they approach the helicarrier, a flash of dull silver and iron gray streaks past them. It loops a wide, graceful arc before settling down on deck. The chopper follows suit, setting down gently on the upper landing strip just as the man's faceplate retracts to reveal the usual mile wide grin.

It's not until Steve is out of the bird, feet firmly planted, that he realizes the familiar face is not  _the_  familiar face.

"Colonel?" he says, confused. The instruction to 'call him Rhodey' has long been forgotten.

"Hey Cap," the man says, as casually as they were passing on the street. "Let me get out of this, and then we can talk. Didn't do too much damage blasting through that wall, did I?"

"No, sir." Steve's voice wavers slightly. Tony Stark is overly protective of his suits and his technology – and yet here's Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, wearing an identical version of Tony's Iron Man armor, calling Steve  _Cap_. Captain, that's not a big deal, but Cap, well, there's a world of difference with the absence of those four letters.

All around him, assumptions are falling apart. Steve rubs his eyes, suddenly bone tired. He needs a shower, shave and change of clothes. Once he's back to feeling human, then he can conquer the questions that hang around him, unanswered.

Until then, everything is just going to have to wait.


	6. Defer

"Just one more."

The woman in drab gray blue scrubs doesn't make eye contact with Darcy. She simply switches the vials with clinical efficiency, waiting patiently as dark red liquid fills the plastic tube. When they said "take some samples," Darcy had envisioned a vial of blood, maybe two. Instead, she's been forced to pee in a cup and give six small vials of blood. All that's missing is the scraping underneath her fingernails and cheek swab to make this a full body experience.

It's making captivity seem like a compelling alternative.

"All done," the woman says. She places the vial on a stainless steel tray along with its previous five mates, and presses a cotton ball against Darcy's inner arm. The needle is cold as it slides out, and the empty space it leaves throbs in protest. Always one to bruise easily – something about low iron in her blood – Darcy knows she's going to have a huge purple mark tomorrow. It will match the one on her other arm, which, now that she thinks about it, didn't hurt anywhere near as much as giving blood.

"Keep this bent," she instructs, pushing Darcy's forearm tight against her bicep. "And drink this. Dr. Banner will be right in."

The samples are placed in a heavily manila envelope, embossed with a stylized eagle. When the nurse catches Darcy staring, she flips the envelope, focusing all her attention on securing the string and tab closure at the back.

"What happens to those?"

"They're going out for analysis. We need to find out what they gave you, and make sure that it's all out of your system."

What isn't said is just as ominous as what is. She's been doped with at least two, if not more, drugs. The needles might have been sterile, or they could have been scooped up off the floor of a nightclub, ripe with all sorts of who knows what.

Hepatitis, HIV, West Nile, the Black Plague, Darcy's seen enough in the past eighteen months to know  _anything_  is possible.

"This is what I get for wanting more excitement in my life."

She leans back in her chair, eyes drifting shut. There's no way it's going to end with this, at least not where her employer is concerned, but she doesn't give a high holy fuck. At this point, the only thing that matters is a shower and a change of clothes. After that, she'll burrow under her giant, fluffy duvet and cuddle her stuffed rabbit, Bubba, while eating mac and cheese straight out of the pan.

"How are you feeling?"

Darcy opens her eyes just enough to watch the exchange between Bruce and Nurse Ratched who passes the document and quickly steps away. His cheeks color slightly, but he doesn't call her out. Bruce isn't wired that way, but it makes the slow simmer that bubbles right under the surface that much more potent. He turns his body, shutting the woman out, and reviews whatever's been scribbled on the page. A slight tilt of the head, not enough to constitute a full nod, but definitely more than a twitch, is a familiar sign. He's obviously pleased with whatever mumbo jumbo is scribbled on the page.

"Your vitals are normal," he says, not looking up. "You're a little bit dehydrated, though, so I'd like to get a drip going, maybe keep you overnight-"

"No," she says, not opening her eyes. "No more. I want to go home."

"Darcy, we're not done yet. I still want a full panel of x-rays, maybe an MRI…"

"And maybe open heart surgery, while you're at it?" She sighs, knowing that she sounds like a cranky bitch, but who can blame her? She's been in the same underwear for so long it can probably stand up on its own. "I'm done for today. I want to go home and sleep. Everything can wait."

"I don't think that's a good-"

She opens her eyes, leveling Bruce with  _The Stare_. It's a skill, being able to look at people like this, one part disdain, one part down right arrogance. When she's tired, no one tells her what to do - not her mother, not her father, and, most definitely, not Bruce Banner.

"Look," she says, softening her tone in the hopes of placating him, "I appreciate the concern and all, but I'm fine. Nothing that can't be cured with a shower, copious amounts of processed food, and a long winter's nap."

"We still need to check-"

"Are you my mother, or are you my friend?"

"I'm Bruce," he says, because their relationship is more complex than a word like "friend" can sum up. "But I'm also your boss. I can pull rank if I have to."

"Go for it. I'll slap you with a harassment claim so fast your head will spin."

"Oh yeah?" He actually smiles at this, one eyebrow rising at the challenge. "On what grounds?"

"My boss kissed me in front of twenty people just a few hours ago."

"And your friend was very relieved to find out that you were safe," he counters. "Amazing what happens when ridiculous things like emotions wreak havoc on a logical human being."

"Says the man with the rage issues. I'm surprised they let you anywhere near me."

"Like they could keep me away."

Darcy knows she's not going to win when he cuts the angles like this – it's taken ages to get Bruce to open up, and now that the floodgates are finally free… "I can have you painted as a dirty old man, you know. You're the one who likes to remind me you're old enough to be my father."

"And, if I recall," his voice is a bit higher now, like it's issuing from his throat, forced out by air bubbles that make everything sound a bit off. "You countered with that only being feasible if I'd knocked up someone my senior year of high school."

"Stranger things…" Darcy slowly releases her arm, ignoring the burn of imaginary needles under her skin. Her fist is still clenched, and, in the bright industrial light, the deep rings of grime underneath her fingernails are alarming. Other things - the smell of her hair, the lack of deodorant, the stench of damp that clings to her, -she's conditioned herself to shut out, but the rings disgust her.

"I need to take a shower," she says, sliding forward in the chair. "Is someone going to take me home, or do I need to call a cab?"

"You're staying here tonight," Bruce says again. He's trying to be firm, but that's the great thing about Bruce; he's so calm, so under control, that even when he's trying to be a badass, he still comes across like a doll. Sure, he could push her, really let the dog off the proverbial leash and be a douche, but that would mean relinquishing some of his ever-present control, allowing the anger to bubble to the surface, and they both know that isn't going to happen.

"No, I'm going home. There's a big candy bar in my fridge that's been waiting for me since Friday. I don't stand up my dates." She hesitates, glancing around the room. "What day is it?"

Bruce smiles and crosses his arms. The folder hangs at an awkward angle, displaying the same stylized eagle. He hasn't reacted to it, but that could be nothing. "Tuesday evening."

Darcy nods, trying valiantly not to show her alarm. Five days… She and Steve had been locked away for five days. What would have happened had he not grabbed the phone? Would they have gone at her with the drugs again? Maybe him too? What if it had gotten worse? What had she actually given up?

Fortunately, Steve had thought on his feet, and her own geeky awesomeness had paid off. If not, well… she wasn't going to think about that.

"Five days isn't too late," Darcy says, standing slowly. Her legs are weak, and her head is sore, but she's not going to concede. If Bruce sees any sign of weakness, he'll never let her go home. His need to keep her safe is endearing, and she loves that about him, but right now she craves familiar and quiet, which can only be achieved with chocolate and stuffed animals so old they're all but thread bare.

"Besides, once that chocolate is in my mouth, it will be too happy to argue."

"That's warped logic."

"What can I say," she says. "Chocolate is bliss. Now are you arranging a ride home for me or not?"

Bruce shakes his head, but they both know he's lost this round. Darcy's apartment is so close she can smell it, and that is enough to keep her upright for as long as it takes.

"Once you're human, we need to talk," he says.

"You could be waiting for a very long time, Bruce." She waits for him to open the door to her exam room. It's his way of conceding this round. If there's one thing she knows, it's that Bruce Banner will never admit he's giving in. "You're assuming I was human in the first place."

It's a direct hit, right at the center of an already sensitive issue, but Darcy isn't above playing dirty pool when she needs to.

"Look," she says, forcing bravado into her voice. "I love you more than good beer and bad comedy, but I've got to do this on my own. I've always hated how the princess waits for someone to rush in and save her, and I'm not going to start living that way now."

Bruce smiles and shakes his head, and it hurts her to realize just how world-weary he is. Most people would be clamoring for this level of attention from anyone, let alone the famous Bruce Banner, but it's just not how she's wired.

"We're reversing roles here - I'm usually the one pushing people away," he says.

"The apprentice learns from the master, Banner-san."

"Hey Darce?"

She turns and looks back at him over her shoulder. Bruce looks tired and worn down, his big brown eyes so deep and full of things she'll never understand.

"You know what they say about harass, don't you?" He doesn't wait for her to respond. "Her ass wasn't what I was looking at."

"Harr harr," she says, walking away.

**O-O**

A few men dressed in dark suits try to prevent her from leaving, but it's a lost cause. Darcy's driven home in a large black SUV, the windows tinted so dark that no one can see in. Around her, the city is lit up, all streetlights and store signs, vying for attention. As they approach the FDR, Darcy rolls down her window, straining to catch glimpses of the East River. Growing up landlocked, she never tires of the water. When she first moved to Red Hook, she used to come up with excuses to visit Governors Island, or wander through the parks that dot the edges of Manhattan. It's the first real sense of comfort she's felt since being lifted up out of that hole to find Bruce waiting for her, ready to rush her away to safety.

The knife twists in her chest as she thinks about Bruce and his greeting. For just one fleeting moment, she allowed herself to be caught up and carried away, too tired and too grateful for being rescued from that cold, damp cell. It felt good to be hugged, and to know that she'd been missed. But, once back at the Tower, with heavily sugared coffee in her system and a warm blanket across her shoulders, Darcy's reactions felt cheap and selfish. She wasn't a princess, waiting to be swept up and carried away. She was just as much a part of the rescue as anyone else, and damned if anyone gave her a shred of credit for that. In some ways, it had been no different from being cooped up, waiting for what comes next. More needles, more questions, but not a single answer.

As they cross the Williamsburg Bridge, Darcy leans and lets her mind drift. She doesn't want to think about it anymore - no needles, no unknown; she's done with it all. There would be enough of that tomorrow.

"A team has swept your apartment," the driver says. He glances at her in the rear view mirror, just long enough to make sure she's heard him. "They've made sure that everything is secure. There'll be people watching the front and back of your building, and there'll be a car waiting to take you back to the Tower tomorrow at noon."

"So much for a day off," Darcy mumbles. Still, noon is better than eight.

When the agent pulls up the curb, she's out of the door before the car is at a complete stop, a hurried call of thanks over her shoulder. She punches in the entry code in the entryway, running up five flights of steps, the sense of relief growing with each landing.

**O-O**

The comfort of home and a full belly are enough to pull her down into sleep, but they can't keep the dreams at bay - fractured images too vivid to be anything but real. Giant needles, a gray-haired man up in her face, so close and so angry that the spittle flew from his thin lips. His speech was heavily accented, reminding her of bad nineties Saturday Night Live skits where the men all dressed and black and danced like fools.

There are moments of peace, though – nothing visual, just the sense of warm and a safe presence. Sometimes there's color floating around the edges, the faintest, softest blue, but when she tries to reach out, the colors recede into the darkness and the shouting returns.

**O-O**

The car pulls up to the curb promptly at twelve on the dot, a long sleek Town Car with a STARK 10 license plate. Darcy's in motion before the driver can get out, jerking the door open and sliding inside.

"Any chance we can grab a cuppa joe, I'd kill for some-"

"Good morning, Darcy." Steve Rogers is sitting in the back seat, neatly pressed and polished, his blue and white shirt plaid as a tablecloth. Darcy waits, expecting something like irritation to bubble up through her, but then he smiles, all blinding white and perfect teeth, and ducks his head to break eye contact. "Never thought I'd say this, but I actually may have missed you."

"We really need to talk," she says, tugging the door shut behind her. "I get that we spent the whole week together, and I may have slept with you, but showing up in  _my_  Town Car is a bit over the top, don't you think?"

Steve laughs, and it's a deep, rich sound that emanates from his stomach. Her comment really wasn't that funny, but then again, it's nice to laugh.

"Our Town Car, since we don't live that far apart. Corporate efficiency and all that. Would you like a bagel?" he tips a bag in her direction. "I didn't know how you take your coffee, and the idea of buying soda was something I couldn't stomach."

She accepts his offering, selecting a salt bagel and slowly tearing it into pieces. "We can always stop for coffee on the way. If we are truly going to be sharing transportation for the indefinite future, you may as well truly fulfill the role of a good stalker."

Steve smiles and glances out the window, the pink tint in his cheeks softening the high polish and making him almost approachable.

"Duly noted, Ma'am."

They eat in silence, watching the city speed by. Steve glances at her once or twice, but Darcy keeps her face angled away. She's not sure what to say to him, not out here in the real world. They're at opposite ends of the spectrum, not something that can be easily bridged.

It's too bad. He really does seem like a good guy.

The car pulls into an underground garage, following a ramp down deeper into the bowels of the building. They stop in front of an elevator, the doors open and waiting. Steve gets out first, turning and extending his hand to Darcy to help her out of the car.

"Thanks," she says, stopping long enough to brush crumbs from her pants. She looks like an amateur next to him, a college student next to a professional. It's never bugged her before; in fact, she's actively cultivated the illusion, but now, it feels different. She's standing at the edge of an unknown precipice, scared to go forward, but unable to go back.

There's no buttons in the elevator. As soon as they are inside, the doors slide shut, and the car begins its ascent. Darcy's ears pop, and she yawns, trying to clear away the pressure.

"I wish I had some gum," she murmurs.

Steve digs in his pants pocket, fishing out a pristine pack and passes it to her silently.

"Thanks."

The elevator doors slide open. Two men wait for them. The faces are unfamiliar, but the stance, the guns at their hips and the patches on their shoulders, are not.

"Captain, Agent Lewis," a deep voice calls out from somewhere deep in the room. It's familiar, one heard on endless calls. Director Fury has been a faceless mystery to Darcy, up until now. "If you'll join me, please, we have a lot to discuss."

Darcy strips open the pack of gum, hastily tugging one piece free and stuffing it in her mouth before tossing it back to Steve Rogers. "Former military, huh?" The delivery is sarcastic, and smacks with a healthy zing of "you're so busted, asshole."

"Lab assistant," he counters, sarcasm so strong it could cut. Most men back down when she catches them in a lie, maybe even offer up an apology. Not Steve. He actually seems to stand up a little straighter, his chin jutting forward in a way that's all too damn familiar. "And to think, you were the one they were interested in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you so much for reading and all the lovely comments. This will be significantly longer than Space Between, and as I mentioned before, very different. If you've read my other stuff, you'll notice my posting schedule is much slower. It's a byproduct of a more complex story and work being super busy. Even though the chapters might not roll out quite as fast, updates will still come (I always see through what I write), and I can always be counted on for a tease on Tumblr (link in my profile). Thank you again for reading, and have a lovely week!


	7. Honesty

Nick Fury is a commanding man, but layer in the eye patch and the ankle-length black leather coat, and he's downright daunting. While he's not as tall or as physically imposing as Steve, he completely commands a room, radiating a presence that screams "Shut the fuck up and sit down."

Notice the absence of the word  _please_.

It's only the second time in her life that Darcy's been intimidated into silence. The first was in seventh grade, and had something to do with a large crowd and the sinking realization that limericks about a man from Nantucket didn't really fall into the category of "poetry."

Steve Rogers, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have any issues with the director of SHIELD. He nods, and takes his place at a long glass conference table like it's the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, he manages to sit ramrod straight while leaning back, something that seems physically impossible for ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population. Darcy latches onto that, allowing it to fuel the irrational anger that's clawing its way up from an ugly place inside her. She's not sure who this guy is, but she's really getting tired of his constant presence and seeming inability to do anything wrong. If it's not looking good after five days in captivity, or stepping in to be manly man and saving her neck, it's making everything look effortless. He's the embodiment of every perfect guy in high school, the ones who got everything they wanted, including what others longed for, too.

Darcy's never wanted to trip and spill a cup of coffee on someone so much in her entire life. It's petty and beneath her, but she can't help it. She wants Steve Rogers to know what it feels like not to be the perfect one, to live a life full of insecurities. Sitting in gum or a stained button-down would be a really good start.

"Agent Lewis," Director Fury barks. He's standing in front of a long bank of windows, his hands clasped behind his back. "After this briefing, you  _will_  report for more tests. While I understand your desire to be home in your fuzzy bunny slippers…"

"Bear claws, sir," she finally finds her voice. "They're bear claws."

Director Fury continues, ignoring her ridiculous interjection. It doesn't diminish the little fire that's burning in Darcy's chest. "You  _will_  complete a full panel, and you  _will_  piss in as many cups and give as much blood as is needed, do I make myself clear?" He's glowering at her, eyebrows raised in the exact same manner her mother used when she was little.

Twenty years later, and it still sucks.

"Crystal, sir."

He steps forward, resting his fingers on the surface of the table. The contact initiates a series of commands, which black out the windows and dim the overhead lights. The far wall roars to life in a burst of color and light. Photos, schematics, text, all cluster together in a series of modern mumbo jumbo, understandable only to the creator.

"Here's what we know," he says. "We captured five men, all with paperwork faker than the voting on reality television."

Director Fury taps the table again, and a series of mug shots rise to the forefront. Facial hair, glasses and other surface changes might obscure features, but even with that, the men are familiar. They own starring roles in the previous night's hazy dreamscape, images Darcy doubts she'll ever be able to forget.

The one who stood in the bathroom, leering at her while she peed. The one who drug her out of the cell, holding her so tight there were bruises on her bicep. The one with the needle – their faces are burnt into her memory the way an image left on the screen too long will burn their way onto a monitor. The ghosts of those images will always be there.

"There's one missing, sir." Steve, who's sat silently across from her, taking it all in, is leaning forward in his chair. His arms are on the table, elbows bent to provide support. If Grammy Lewis were here, she'd smack him upside his perfectly coiffed golden head and tell him that he had the manners of an ox. "There was an older man with gray hair and a heavy accent-"

"And a goatee," Darcy interjects. "Goatee and a soul patch."

She doesn't remember him, the details like speech and coloring, but Steve's description is like a flashlight shining on a fragment of a memory. She can see the man's mouth – his slim goatee and the ridiculous little patch of hair just below his bottom lip. Where or when this observation happened escapes her, but the image is there, sharp as day, and impossible to manufacture.

"What sort of accent?" Fury demands.

Steve frowns and quickly licks his lower lip, his front teeth scraping lightly across the dampened skin, "German, maybe? Or Russian? I'm not good with languages."

 _Finally_ , Darcy wants to shout. Nice to see he's human like the rest of the population. The look on Steve Rogers face cuts the gloating short – the emptiness in his eyes, which are cast down at the table. That's not the expression of a man who's used to being good at everything – but the way someone looks when they've lost it all.

"What about this group?" Fury points at the screen. If he notices what's going on, it's not concerning enough to break his single-minded attack on the question. "What did you notice about them? Accents? Distinguishing marks? Peculiar word choices?"

"No accents," Steve says. That pained look is gone, but there's less life in his voice. "At least not around us."

They all sit quietly for a minute, Darcy struggling to recall more details about their captors. Outside of her interrogation, the interactions had all been non-verbal. In fact, everything about the situation was non-descript – their clothes, the lack of any identifying marks or details. It was as if everything was dipped in black, obscuring anything memorable or identifiable. Even if she could describe what she recalled, without tangibles to latch on to, Darcy is second guessing even the most basic details. Very simply, it's like there's nothing there, even though she knows that isn't true.

"There's other ways to get answers," Steve says. His elbows are back on the table, and his accent is thicker. In their short but very contained cohabitation, Darcy knows this can only mean one thing - someone's lit a fire underneath Mr. Buttoned Up. "What'd you get out of the computers?" Director Fury tips his head, non-committal, but willing to entertain the question. "There were stacks of boxes – computers, papers. What were they?"

Fury's shoulders rise and fall, his exaggerated breath completely silent but melodramatically visible. It feels like he's walking a tightrope, dishing out small bites of information, just enough to engage them, but not enough to explain what is going on. Them knowing about whatever came out of the building is obviously not part of that equation.

"Surveillance," he says slowly. "Mostly blueprints of the tower, hasty sketches of lab layouts, that sort of thing." Fury hesitates for a moment before swinging his attention to Darcy. "And a startling amount of information on  _you_ , Agent Lewis. Phone logs, photos-" he reaches into a pocket as he speaks. "Copies of your fingerprints. You are the lynchpin here. Any idea why?"

Darcy's cheeks burn, humiliated by his attack. She's done nothing but what they've asked of her, even beyond, and now this? "No, sir," she says, not trying to mask her irritation. "I've spent the last twelve months doing what I was assigned to do, and doing a bang up job, if I recall."

 _The job she willingly accepted - the one that Phil Coulson recruited her to do before he died_ , she wants to say.  _The one that will ruin a relationship and put everyone at risk if it gets out. So don't you come at me, you passive-aggressive, cycloptic son-of-a bitch._

"Besides," she says, plowing ahead. "Who says they weren't after soldier boy, here? I'm not the only one they interrogated, you know?"

"True," Fury says, and it throws Darcy for a loop. She expects push back, not agreement. "You were definitely the person of interest, but I also think you were just a means to an end."

He taps the table, and the photos fade, replaced by b-roll footage that's so familiar, little kids can act it out in their backyards - images from the attack on New York, and the Avengers fighting side by side. The focus is on Bruce Banner, although he's in his less than jolly green giant mode. Darcy's seen this video millions of times, but it's still hard for her to reconcile this… creature…with the man who hums as he works, chews on pen caps, and loves English shortbread.

While Bruce is the focus, he's not the only person contained within the reel. Here and there, cuts are spliced in - the man all too familiar in his red white and blue, the patriotic Mr. All American with the shoulder span twice that of his waist. Women hang out in front of Stark Tower, holding signs emblazoned with his photo, hoping against hope that they'll get a glimpse of the man that Bruce jokingly calls a walking Ken Doll, who's too nice to ever get annoyed with for being anything other than noble.

"Any idea what they wanted?" Steve's voice bounces off the glass and plaster, louder normal. "There is no common link between this video and Darcy, at least not that we know of."

The use of her first name feels odd in this setting, where everything has been so formal and structured. It humanizes all this, and reminds Darcy that, at the end of the day, they're just people, even if their level of training is higher than most. It's not like they're given special powers that can deal with all this.

"We have an idea," Fury says, "But it's more about the video than it is Agent Lewis. She would just be the access point."

"Blood," Darcy says. She's not sure where it comes from, the idea, that is, or why she's even throwing it out there. "What was Banner working on when he became what he is now?"

Fury nods, encouraging her to continue.

"There are vials stored in the lab," she says.

"Vials of what?" Steve's leaning forward now, his attention riveted on her.

"Captain America and Bruce Banner's blood." She glances at Fury, and his lack of reaction is all the verification she'll get. "That's the common link. Radiation, serums, Banner's research on how to get it all under control. That's what they're after-"

"And you were their way in, Agent Lewis. You aren't the connector, you're the key. A way in."

She glances over at Steve. He's rubbing his hand across his face, his index and middle finger rough against his left cheekbone as he stares at some abstract point on the wall. There's a hardness to him, icy cold and far away. He was like this in the cell when he took control, slipping into another world, where there's only the end game, and what it takes to get there.

"Why didn't you tell me that Banner was working with my genetic material?" he demands. His voice is completely flat, and it cuts like a knife. "You told me the experiments were done."

It takes Darcy a fraction of a second to realize that the comments aren't directed at her, and from there, the pieces that have hung together, but never really clicked tumble into the proper sequence. The structure, the warmth, the focus, and the damn shoulder span double the width of that itty bitty little waist.

Fury had brought them here, calling Steve " _Captain_." She'd been so pissed off at realizing he had a SHIELD connection that she'd missed the obvious. Not just A captain, but THE Captain.

Pivoting in her chair, Darcy stares hard at the man she's assumed so much about, realizing just how off base she's been. It doesn't change her overall perspective on him, he's still too perfect, but it does connect a few of the dots.

"Cap," she says. Steve visibly blanches at the use of the title, but doesn't correct her or deny the address. "There's an awful lot you don't know. Let's go find a safe place to get a ruffieoo-free drink, and we'll discuss."

"Agent Lewis," Fury cuts in, "I don't think-"

"No," she stands and pushes back away from the table. He's still intimidating, and he's still, technically, her boss, but at the end of the day, she's tired of being in the dark, and because of that, pulling other people in with her. "Can me, if you will, but I'm done with this cloak and dagger shit."

They stare at each other across the table, the challenge hanging over the glass table like a boulder. She's got too much power and just enough knowledge to be truly dangerous, and they both know that's not a bluff.

"Piss in a cup first," he demands. "Once all that is dealt with, then you two can go have your little coffee klatch while I solve the world's problems."

"Beat you there, sir." She snaps off a salute, hoping it's half as mocking as she intends it to be. "And my money's on Soldier boy here, for what it's worth."

Darcy stands and turns to Steve. "You ready for this?"

It takes him a moment to respond, fingers drumming on the table as he takes everything in. "After you," he says. "I'm never one to get between a subject and a specimen cup."

**O-O**

They don't talk until after it's all done. A car takes them to a SHIELD installation in Midtown Manhattan, hidden in plain sight from a million gawking tourists. Darcy is scanned, poked, x-rayed, and they probably would have probed her if she hadn't drawn that line. In the end, there's nothing to find, and she's given a clean bill of health.

Steve… it's weird to call him Steve now, and she wonders if that really is his name, is waiting patiently for her outside the examination room. His sleeves are rolled, and there are crinkles in his perfectly pressed pants. She suddenly feels guilty for wishing the man ill,; he's obviously struggling with all this too, and from the deep line that's formed between his eyebrows, hasn't done very well at reconciling any of the information.

"Do you mind if I show you something first?" he asks, and actually waits for her nod of agreement before proceeding. "Come on."

They take the elevator up five floors, to a secured floor with non-descript white corridors and heavy wooden doors. There are no numbers, but that doesn't seem to cause an issue for Steve. He leads her through a maze of hallways, left then right, without hesitation. That is, until he reaches the last door on the left.

Steve twists the knob, and forces the heavy door open to reveal a large, open area with a miniature room assembled inside of it, not unlike a movie set.

"This is where I woke up," he says, voice low. "They tried to make me believe that no time had passed, but we all know that isn't true."

Steve walks slowly around the perimeter, studying the structure from the outside. "They manufactured this to ease me in instead of just telling me the truth. It's been that way for eighteen months, and I'm really sick and damned tired of it."

He turns to face Darcy, and the pain is so deeply etched on his face that it takes her breath away. "Just tell me the truth," he pleads. "I won't ask anything more, but I deserve that."

The truth, Darcy thinks. She's not even sure what it is anymore, but she knows that's part of the problem. The labyrinth is so elaborate, so complicated, that it might not be easy to find her way back. Even worse, if she starts at the beginning, there might not be a way out.

The heavy brass knob gives easily under her hand as she pushes open the door to the false room. Inside, there's a single bed, but little else. Ironic, in a way, but it's not all that different from their cell. Darcy sits down on the edge, smoothing the cool white sheet under her hand.

"Cop a squat, Steve," she says, patting the space beside her. "That is the right thing to call you, isn't it?"

He smiles, and it's sad, maybe even a little wistful. "Just don't call me late for dinner and I'm good."

The mattress buckles a little under his weight, and Darcy doesn't start until he's settled.

"Two years ago, in the Land of Enchantment, I worked for an Astrophysicist by the name of Jane Foster…"


	8. Dialogue

Not too long after Steve came crashing into this modern world, he started seeing a psychiatrist. Truth be told, the mental health attention was a SHIELD mandate and not Steve's choice. There were thousands of justifiable reasons for him to need the support – potential for post-traumatic stress disorder, the need for twenty first century coping mechanisms, and his self-imposed isolation - just to name a few. Taking precautions, given his unique background was logical, especially once SHIELD realized they were sitting on one hell of a weapon. Ultimately, the kid gloves were unnecessary. Steve Rogers adapted remarkably well, battling through the intermittent bouts of melancholy without the need for extensive therapy of any kind.

After the attempted invasion of Earth, and the subsequent creation of The Avengers, he was released from the mandatory sessions. According to the medical staff, Captain Steve Rogers was more than capable of managing his 'emotional wellbeing,' but the door would always be open should he ever find himself in need.

In a nutshell, he was set free on the world with the promise of a safety net.

Steve might not have ever acted on the offer, for the idea of head doctors was one of the antiquated notions that carried over from the forties. Fortunately for him, Steve tripped across a member of the safety net, Dr. William Norton, at a bookstore just blocks from the tower. Young by Steve's perspective, William Norton was in his early sixties, a slim, athletic man with silver hair and an easy smile. He recognized Steve, and their casual conversation over a book of baseball trivia grew into true support and friendship.

William Norton, or Doc, as Steve came to call him, became a sounding board, a place to calibrate thoughts without any fear of repercussion or interference.

Then, and only then, did Steve finally start to open up and face the things that truly haunt him. The losses, both  _before_  and  _after_ , along with the constant loneliness, they're all things he talks about with his friend, Doc, not the clinician hired by SHIELD to report back on his mental status.

Having cleared a full workup on the Helicarrier the night before, Steve is not subjected to the same rigors that Darcy must go through. He sees her safely to Medical, and promises to be there once she's free from life as a pincushion (her words). Once free, he runs the four flights of stairs to Doc's office, desperate for some perspective before returning to their mountain of unfinished business.

He knocks gently on the office door, waiting politely for an invitation to enter.

"Steven," Doc says. He stands halfway, his desk chair creaking at the sudden change in motion. It's an in between moment - no patients waiting, no calls lighting up his phone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was in the building, and thought I'd drop by." Steve hesitates, casting a quick glance around the all too familiar room, searching for the familiar. "Can you spare a minute?"

"For you? Always." Doc eases back into his chair, his fingers naturally weaving together into an inverted V, which he rests on his stomach. "What's on your mind, my friend?"

Steve nudges the door shut, claiming the leather wingback on the left. They've spent hours here, pouring over details of Steve's life, both before and after, and he's never felt the slightest bit nervous. But now, Steve is seeing his life differently, a string of endless panels, linked together by a narrative that's out of his control. The intermittent places where he's controlled the commentary - choosing the serum, going after Bucky, downing the HYDRA plane in the ice - they've all been transformative. Will this be one of those moments, too?

"You don't look so good, my friend."

Steve appreciates the candor. Outside of his interactions with Jim Rhodes, this is the one place he can count on for direct, honest assessments. "Truth be told, Doc, I'm not."

Steve's never been one to admit failure or weakness – it's always been a luxury reserved for those who had the size or the means to indulge in a momentary indiscretion and bounce back. He's always been too  _too_  – too small, too weak, too sick, and then later too visible, too desired, too much an icon. Falling apart has never been an option.

Even now, admitting his own doubts is hard to do, even though Steve knows it's absolutely the right thing to do.

"I'd ask you if you want to talk about it, but given-" Doc waves his hand around the room, a reflection of his affiliation with SHIELD. "So is this personal, professional, conceptual…?"

"Yes." The hesitation Steve feels doesn't carry through. His voice is level, just like it always is. He's a soldier and a leader, the one place where there's no place for fear.

"Ah, well then." Doc leans forward, shuffling papers into a sloppy pile. "Care to share your state of mind?"

"Confused. Frustrated," Steve admits, "But more than anything, disgusted."

"Disgusted? Why's that?"

Steve sighs and tugs at the crease in his pants. The sharp line is passé, another holdover from  _before_ , a mandate of his time and rank. No one cares about how sharp the crease is now, and yet he keeps up appearances. It's yet another thing he can't let go. "Everything is built on lies. My life, my friendships…" he hesitates, unable to put into words the frustration that hangs around him like a cloud. "You've got security clearance, right?"

Doc nods, encouraging Steve on. "You know I do."

"Pull up my file and look at the last few days. As uptight as this organization is, I can't imagine the whole gory thing isn't out there. Hell, I bet you'll end up knowing more than I do."

"Steven, that isn't-" But Doc pulls up short. Maybe it's Steve's expression, or the choked sound that comes from somewhere between his throat and his chest. If it's all captured in an incident brief, maybe Steve can spare himself from regurgitating the things he can't begin to understand, let alone verbalize.

Without another word, Doc nudges his mouse, bringing his monitor roaring to life. A rapid fire of keystrokes carries him deep into the SHIELD network, where classified documents on one Steven Grant Rogers are housed. Doc offers no preamble, no narration - he simply dives in, shuffling through mountains of digital documents until he finds what he needs.

For fifteen minutes, there's nothing but silence. Steve fidgets with his crease while Doc reads, and when the utility of the crease is exhausted, he moves north, running his hands through the front of his hair. It's a nervous habit, one from childhood that always drove his mother crazy.

"Oh, Steven," Doc says when he reaches the end. "This is one of those times when I wish I could take you out for a stiff drink. More importantly, I wish it would actually do some good. The way they treat you sometimes…"

Doc shakes his head, as if the motion will force away all the bad thoughts. "You are a man, not a lab rat or a simpleton who's incapable of understanding the nuances of modern espionage."

That simple platitude, the desire to be a friend, is all that's needed to break the All the tension, all the frustration that's been threatening to take Steve under slowly He slumps back in his chair, suddenly bone tired and grateful for the few minutes of peace. "I don't know which way is up or who to trust."

"That's fair," Doc concedes. He leans back in his chair, leaving one hand on the mouse. "But I don't think trust is your issue. You've dealt with issues like these before. Tell me, what's different this time?"

Steve glances up at the ceiling. There are a number of tiny holes, dotted together in a tight cluster. In a moment of weakness, or maybe camaraderie, Doc had admitted to seeing an agent who channeled frustration by chucking pencils at the ceiling.

It would be nice to have that option right now.

"Darcy Lewis is special," Steve admits. Other than the passing acknowledgement with Rhodey, it's the first and only time that Steve's admitted his interest in the enigmatic Ms. Lewis. He knows that logic should take over, dictating a decrease in attraction, maybe even demand revulsion. The opposite is true. While he's disgusted with the situation and tired of the lies, Steve's fascination with Darcy Lewis has only grown stronger. She's smart, she's capable, and to top it all off, she's downright fearless. There's absolutely no way to find fault with that.

Doc smiles and nods - his lined face projecting patience and understanding well beyond his years. He wasn't even alive when I went into the ice, Steve thinks, and here, he's seen as a senior advisor. What does that mean for me?

"I happen to know Agent Lewis," he admits. "Maybe almost as well as I know you. One of a kind girl, isn't she?"

"And then some," Steve agrees. He thinks about her fight, the way she threw elbows and tried to break free as the cell wall blasted inward. Most women…no, most  _people_  would have cowered beneath him, happy that someone else was bearing the brunt of the assault. She'd wanted to be out in the thick of it all, fighting her way free.

"You two are a lot alike in some ways, Steven." Doc tips his head to the side. "Have you tried talking to her?"

"About what? How I watch her on the bus ride home? That would go over so well."

Doc's smile is bigger now, the creases around his eyes expanding into a brilliant burst of happiness. "You might be surprised, Steven. Try having a little faith in people."

"Easier said than done."

"Maybe," Doc concedes. "Maybe not. Let's just say that Agent Lewis and you, well…you could do worse."

He pushes back from his desk, tugging at his tie. "I have a four o'clock that I need to prepare for, Steven. My recommendation? Talk to Agent Lewis. I wouldn't normally encourage dialogue, but this is a unique situation. You might be surprised what you learn."

Steve stands, extending his hand across the desk. Doc's grasp is firm and sure, reinforcing the encouragement he's poured out. "It's nice to see something as simple as a girl can rattle you," he says with a wink. "It makes you more…." He hesitates, searching for the right word, "Approachable."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

"Always a compliment," Doc says. "And you know where I am, if you ever need to talk."

"Like I haven't heard that one before."

"Good luck, soldier. You'll knock her dead."

**O-O**

Steve is there, waiting for Darcy when she's released. He takes her to the awful place where this second chapter began, because it's the one place they can talk without interruption. It's a strange choice - there are no good memories in this strange little room. It's the incarnation of lies and manipulation, but there amongst the ruined illusion, the truth finally begins to flow.

He listens as Darcy tells her story – her work with Jane Foster and her time with Thor and other Asgardians. He's not at all surprised by Phil Coulson's cultivation – and his active engagement in bringing Darcy to New York after graduation. What little Steve knows of the late agent makes the connection simple but powerful – Coulson was always on the lookout for potential in others - of course he'd see Darcy's courage and tenacity as a good thing.

"So,  _Captain_ , are you going to tell me why you're hiding in plain sight?"

The sun is low on the horizon now, casting long shadows through the far windows. In the absence of clocks, they're using light to keep track of time, watching the finger creep across the open door like a minute hand.

"Not until you finish your story," Steve counters. Darcy's told him the distance between points A to B, but there's more to it than how she got to New York.

She leans back on her elbows, and the bed frame squeaks under the distribution of weight. "If I do, will you promise not to think badly of me?"

The sudden apprehension catches Steve off guard, and so he does the only thing he can think of. He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, so that they're shoulder to shoulder. When she doesn't speak, he nudges her gently. "Don't you think we're kind of past that at this point? I did spoon you, after all." It's a phrase Steve's heard thrown about casually in conversation, and it feels foreign tripping off of his tongue.

"True," she says quietly. He's noticed that, when deep in thought, Darcy chews on her lower lip. "And you did give me your shirt."

"My  _favorite_  shirt. You owe me."

"Yeah, and if I recall, you said it  _wasn't_  your favorite. Besides, it was me and my badass battery pack got us out."

"It helped," he admits. "But there were other factors involved."

Darcy sighs, and kicks out one leg, then the other, stalling for time.

"I don't know why, but I like you. That would be  _in spite_  of all your spit polish and perfection." There's a quick sideways glance, but the minute they make eye contact, Darcy turns away. "I don't trust people easily."

"Life can do that to you," Steve says. He wants to say that he understands - to use his experiences to help ease her through the conversation - but this isn't his story. Darcy needs to tell it, her way. "Keep going."

She shakes her head and almost smiles, but it's too wistful to be considered happy. "When SHIELD brought me to New York, I thought I'd go through full training, maybe even learn how to be a  _real_  badass agent, guns and all, but things didn't quite work out." Darcy shakes her head. "Apparently, handling two cantankerous scientists and a demigod is immediate qualification for the next level. Little did I know that the next level is one giant bundle of anger."

"And…" Steve prompts. They're treading into the thick of it now, the root of it all.

"And…" she says, mimicking his over annunciation, "I was inserted into Stark to be Bruce Banner's assistant, with mandates, of course. First, help keep him in a Zen place, and second, report back on  _everything_  he's doing. It started out well enough, but then it got…" Darcy waves her hand in the air, as if combing the air for a word that fits. "Complicated."

"How so?"

Darcy drops her head, suddenly fascinated by something on her shirt. It takes a while for her to continue. "Fraternization isn't very wise, is it, Captain?"

He lets the words sink in. They're not an outright declaration of relations, but they're also not a denial. "So that explains why Dr. Banner was so happy to see you."

Darcy frowns. "Yeah, that water's a bit muddy right now."

"I don't know," he says, fighting through the sense of loss bubbling up from deep inside. It's ridiculous, this need to mourn. How can he lose something that was never there to begin with? Maybe it's the knowledge of what could have been, but it tears at his throat as the words escape. "It all looked pretty clear to me."

Darcy rolls on her side, her hand supporting her head. It's the first time she's looked directly at him since they started talking, but there's no fight in her, no fire blazing in her eyes. Only sadness and something more, maybe defeat.

"You ever want someone so bad that you lose all reason?" she asks. "And then one day, you wake up, and suddenly the longing is gone. Maybe something happens, or maybe nothing happens at all. Maybe you've outgrown it, or maybe you've just moved on. Either way, the affection is still there, but it's not the driving factor in your day-to-day existence anymore." Her voice is raspy, the words tumbling out one of the other. "And then, just when you feel like you're at a good place, and everything is finally back in order, you find out that you can have that  _one_  special thing. It might not be on your terms, but the chance is there," Darcy hesitates, her chin trembling slightly. "The thing is, it's been long enough, and you've been burnt or beaten down too many times. Would you jump back in, or would you let it go?"

"It all depends," Steve says. Darcy's explanation is like a jab in a raw spot, the memories so close and so tangible. "Do you want it because it's something special, or do you want it because you can't have it?"

"What if it's both?"

"What if both isn't an option?"

Darcy drops backward, onto the mattress, her arms draping over her head. To a casual observer, she would appear to be completely relaxed, but Steve can tell that she's still closed off, a mystery that he doesn't know how to crack.

"Enough with all this morose shit," she says. There's a quick sniffle, then a laugh, as she tries to force a lightness that isn't there. "Let's tell each other a secret." She's holding her left wrist with her right hand, her middle finger and thumb linked to form a loose bracelet. "I'll tell you something I thought about you, and you'll do the same for me."

She's slammed closed the conversation, at least for now.

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired of being wrapped up so tight all the time. Because I want a connection to the outside world," she says. "And I think you do, too. It's perfect - we can be each other's lifelines. Keep each other sane and all that jazz."

Steve chuckles, trying hard not to read into anything Darcy says. She's throwing out something to lighten the moment, not to establish any sort of lasting tie. "The last time we went down this path, you called me an accountant-"

"Doesn't matter," she says. "Come on, one special secret, something that no one else can know."

"No judging?"

"Not a single word."

Steve stares at the celling. There are so many things he could say, that he wants to say, but where should be begin? Watching her on the bus? Knowing that her favorite gum is strawberry? There are so many things to say, and so many bombs to dodge.

"Chicken?" she taunts.

"Pragmatic."

"Chicken," Darcy says again. "Fine, since you are so completely petrified, I'll go first. I find that ironic, by the way. Captain America is  _afraid_."

"I'm not! I'm just-"

"Whatever," Darcy says. She chews on her lip, the silence stretching out between them.

Just when it's starting to be unbearable, she speaks, and her voice is softer, more vulnerable than Steve's ever heard her.

"I'm stuck," she says. "I'm completely and utterly stuck, and even more than that, I'm screwed. No one knows what I  _am_. I can't get out, I can't leave, and I sure as hell can't tell Bruce-"

Her admission is startling, even though it makes absolute sense. Acting as an assistant to Bruce Banner is a dangerous job, but even more, it demands absolute trust. Too many people have tried too many different things over the years, negating Banner's ability to let people in. If their relationship is as complex as it appears, and there are  _feelings_  between them, betraying that trust could be downright catastrophic. Not just for Darcy, but for a lot of people.

"I assumed he knew," Steve says softly.

"Oh, hell no!" Darcy's laugh is strangled, a choking gasp that fails to cover her distress. "He'd get his green on faster than you can say haricot verts."

"I'm sorry?"

"Haricot verts," she says again. "You know? French green beans. Besides, it's not like I'm that special. SHIELD would drop someone in to take my place, and then it would get a lot worse."

"Why do you say that?"

Darcy sighs and shifts her grip, encircling her right wrist with her left hand. She's still stretched out across the cot, and, while she's grounding herself with her grip on her wrist, she's not folding into herself. She's still trusting him, still being honest, and Steve accepts that at face value. "That stuff that I told Fury about the blood? It might have been a load of shit."

Steve rolls onto his side, elbow bent to support his weight. He needs to look at her, to see the truth that will back up the words. "Banner doesn't have my blood? I thought he was trying to recreate the serum?"

"Oh he's got your blood, and he was working on the serum, but then he and Erik moved on to something more…complicated."

"And you didn't tell Fury." It comes out sounding like more of a judgment than he intended.

"It's not that easy," she says. "Haven't you ever had a friend that you'd do anything for?"

"Yeah," Steve's response catches in his throat. Bucky's face is as clear today as it was sixty years ago. That friendship prompted Steve to flaunt the rules, turn his back on the formal chain of command, and put people he liked and respected at risk. He knows exactly what Darcy's means. "I did."

"Well, that's Erik Selvig for me," Darcy says. "Bruce and I are complicated, but Erik, well…he's kind of like a dad, and if it's in my power to protect him, I will."

Steve leaps back to the conversation in Doc's office, and the man's insistence that there was a common ground. It forces Steve to take a step back, tabling his ego so that Darcy can paint a bigger picture for him. Not the one he's formed in his head, but the real picture, filled with details he'll never know.

"You're a good person, Darcy Lewis," he says. It's true – regardless of what she's been dropped in to do, her loyalty to Selvig, and her desire to do the right thing is admirable. Most people wouldn't stretch their friendship just to help a friend. Steve knows exactly what that feels like, and it allows Darcy to slip deeper into that empty space inside of him, filling it with a warmth like he's never known.

"You sound surprised."

"That you're a good person? No." Steve drops back on the mattress, his hands resting on his chest. "You're just a lot more than I expected. It's…nice."

Darcy laughs, and it's the same deep, throaty sound that he's grown to love. "So are you, Captain Rogers, so are you."

"You're buying into the myth, the whole 'star spangled man with a plan' propaganda that I can't seem to get away from."

He's never said it so honestly before, but it's true. Steve's tired of being labeled an over-grown Boy Scout, a poster child for a gentler era where men were men and women simpered over them. He'd hated the whole shtick then, and it's not gotten better with age.

"No," she admits. "Although looking back, it wasn't a surprise. You didn't get my Mission Impossible joke, which is so mainstream it's lame stream." She yawns, and lets go of her wrist. Without the improvised bangle, her arms hang loose over the edge of the bed. "No, surprisingly enough, a guy named Steve with perfectly pressed clothes and hair that looks good somehow made me feel safe in that crappy little cell. While I may get annoyed with your overall perfection, I can't take away the good, either. You made me feel safe, and it doesn't have anything to do with special powers or secret identities. That's just who you are."

They lie in silence, not really doing anything other than being, but it doesn't feel like wasted time. Steve stares at the ceiling while his mind wanders aimlessly. Their situations aren't the same, but there also not different, either. They're both living a lie, a sort of half-life that requires deceit and forces a disconnection from the rest of the world.

**O-O**

It's almost dark as they exit the building. Another Town Car waits, ready to take them wherever they need to go. Without a word, Darcy climbs in the backseat, scooting all the way over to the far side so that there's room for Steve, but he doesn't follow.

"I need to go back to the tower for a bit," he says. With one arm braced against the car frame, he can lean down to look into the car. "You going to be okay on your own?"

"Yeah," Darcy says, but there's no enthusiasm in her confirmation. "Maybe I'll stop and grab some food. There isn't anything in my apartment that's remotely edible."

"Just stay away from street meat and strange men offering cans of soda," Steve says. It's a weak attempt at humor, but it does draw a small smile.

They stare at each other for a long time. The things they've shared, both over the last few hours as well as the days in captivity, have solidified over Darcy's confession. There's a bond now, a connection between them so strong that it's hard for Steve to let her go.

Usually, he's one to weigh every step, to debate the merits of action, while analyzing the possible repercussions, but not this time. He digs into his pocket, the cold metal solid and reassuring in his grasp. "Here," he says, extending his hand, palm up. "There's a service that keeps my place stocked with more food than I could ever eat, which is saying something. Why don't you make yourself at home?"

When she doesn't move, he bumbles forward, desperate to fill the space with something halfway normal. "I'll be home soon, and then we can make something, or maybe order pizza if you want."

The qualifier is thrown in at the last minute, but it doesn't negate the invitation. It's out there, and Steve can't take it back. He's conscious of everything – the idling car, the silence that stretches out between them, even the keychain and cheap metal key, which lie in his palm, waiting to be claimed.

Fortunately, Darcy doesn't have his reservations. She scoops the key ring up, and the backs of her fingers brush his palm as she pulls away.

"4D," Steve says, and shuts the door. The driver knows where to go, and Steve feels better knowing that Darcy will be somewhere safe until he can get back to her. There are things gnawing at him, little bits of her story that he wants to poke at more. Until he has them all figured out, the safest place for Darcy to be is somewhere that he can check in on her. If he can't be with her, at least he can keep her safe. "I have a thing or two to take care of. I won't be long."

"Don't worry," she says through the open window. "All I need is time to short sheet your bed and freeze your underwear."

The car pulls away before Steve can respond, Darcy's laughter trailing along like a song. It's like they've come full circle, her moving away while he's locked in his place. The difference now, she's fully lodged herself somewhere deep in his chest, and the desire to help her break free from this mess is overwhelming.

Steve stands at the curb for a long time, watching the taillights filter past him down Broadway. It's quitting time for most people, and the Tower should be relatively empty by now. A quick email, relayed through Jarvis, is all he needs to initiate an urgent meeting request.

It's time to start digging through the red tape.


	9. Favors

It's almost seven when Steve reaches the Tower. While the walk takes longer than he'd like, the time alone helps him clear his head enough to look at things objectively.

From what he's managed to pull together, it would seem that there are three fundamental issues at hand, which all twine tightly together. Banner's secret work is the heart, with the mystery around who initiated the abduction and why direct byproducts. Whatever he and Selvig are up to, it's drawing significant attention, not only from outside parties, but from Nick Fury himself. Even though SHIELD is known to dabble from time to time, installing someone to spy on a known ally is poor form. Bruce Banner is volatile, but he's a large part of the reason SHIELD's still around to keep up the fight.

It's the modern equivalent of winning World War II, then invading the Soviet Union. From what Steve's read, that didn't work out well at all.

The reality is, the bond between the Avengers team and SHIELD is tenuous; it wouldn't take much to break that apart. It makes Steve wonder if there isn't another angle, one where the goal isn't to access Banner's mystery work, but to blow the whole subterfuge wide open. Break the link between the Avengers and SHIELD, send the Hulk on a rampage, and sit back to watch the carnage. It's not the newest, or even the most original idea, but often times tried and true is the most effective.

Either way, it leaves Darcy Lewis at the center of a very dangerous triangle, with Bruce Banner, SHIELD, and the unknown kidnapper forming the three constraining vertexes. She's literally boxed in, and she's not going to get out by herself.

**O-O**

The lights are out when Steve reaches his office. In his absence, someone's been kind enough to water his small cluster of plants in the window and pick up any fallen leaves. That little knot of green is the only personal touch in this otherwise industrial wasteland. He'd like to put up photos, snapshots of the things that are important to him, but that's not an option. Explaining a seventy-year-old photo of your best friend or a turn of the century wedding picture that's supposed to be your parents is simply not advisable. At one point, he'd thought about putting up fake photos, just to fill the space, but that somehow seemed even worse.

Steve flicks on the lamp which has strategically be placed at the corner of the credenza, masking a biometric touchpad hidden under the inside ledge. He presses his thumb hard against the smooth surface and counts slowly backward from five. The pad, installed at Tony's instruction, activates a small drawer that's camouflaged inside the pressed wood and steel.

While the concept of a hidden drawer is all very cloak and dagger, the contents are not – just the old photos that can't go on display, along with an independent report on the Chitauri invasion and a spare apartment key. The report isn't something that Steve ever planned on keeping, he's simply locked it away from prying eyes until there's suitable time to read and digest.

Fortunately, the report includes extensive detail on Dr. Selvig, which will give him more insight into what he might be capable of when working in concert with Bruce Banner.

He scoops up the report and the key, leaving the photos in their place. The report is placed inside a black leather portfolio, which he'll take home, and the key slipped in his pocket for later use.

As Steve sits down at his desk, he lingers over the idea of Darcy. With nothing left to hide, the concept of her roaming around his apartment builds an odd warmth in his chest. He hardly ever has visitors – a random drop in from Natasha when she's in town, and, even less frequently, a Tony Stark fly-by. Will she make good on her promise to wreak havoc on his life, or will she simply settle down in the corner with a book and wait for him to come home?

It's a romantic notion, one, which, he's pretty sure, would be unrequited at this point in their friendship. Still, dreams are a nice thing to keep the cold at bay.

He holds tight to that sentiment as he logs into the Stark network. There's a text-based version of JARVIS resident on his desktop, designed specifically for his non-verbal access. While it's accessible via email, and can take commands similar to the one he issued just days before, Steve needs information that will not display well on a two by three inch phone screen.

Using his index fingers, he slowly pecks out the command prompt  **PERSONNELLEWIS,DARCY**  and hits enter. Steve knows it's a violation of major laws, as well as an invasion of Darcy's privacy, but he's legalities are merely nice to haves at this point. He needs something – anything - that he can use to break the current information stalemate.

The file doesn't provide much, but that's not surprising given Darcy's short tenure at Stark. Her employment application includes a background screener and drug panel, which certify that she does not have an arrest warrant or any felonies, nor is she using any illegal drugs. There are scans of her reference letters. Both Dr. Jane Foster and Dr. Selvig praise Darcy's resourcefulness and tenacity, while assuring that her lack of traditional scientific education would not be a detriment to her ability to be a productive, even valuable asset.

There's no indication of anything out of place in the file, no inferences of outside connections or tampering. He has to hand it to Fury, placing Darcy inside of Stark is a masterstroke, and he's pulled it off without a single tip of the hand.

After the failed attempt to replicate "non-human" technology, as Barton jokingly called it, Steve had hoped that Fury would let things go. Turns out that Nick Fury likes yanking chains a lot more than Steve has given him credit for.

"Knock knock."

Steve glances up just as James Rhodes pushes open the door. The Air Force uniform is gone, replaced by a well cut black suit and white shirt. His collar is open, as is the fashion with most men these days. Steve can't help but wonder in what decade the tie became offensive.

"Colonel, thank you for - " a head tip to the side is enough to stop Steve in his tracks. "Rhodey, thank you for coming." The nickname is stiff on his tongue, but he owes the Colonel his due. The man has toured through Steve's closet of secrets without disclosing anything, a bit of deference can't hurt.

"This better be good, 'cause I had dinner plans."

"It is, but there are a few things we need to cover first." Steve leans forward, his crossed arms resting against his desk. He wants to trust Rhodey. His gut says yes, but there's been too many assumptions and things left unsaid.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Rhodey says. He sits down in a visitor's chair, crossing his legs casually. "Shoot."

"Explain the suit."

"Wow, and we start with a bang." Rhodey smiles and leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually across the back. If anything he's about to say is a lie, the man is a good actor, because the body language is nothing short of completely open. "Short story? I stole it from Tony a few years ago. He was out of control, and I wanted to watch his back. Did such a good job, he let me keep it."

"Why did  _you_  show up instead of Iron Man?"

"Tony was in LA. He asked if War Machine could stand in."

"War Machine," Steve turns the name over, playing with it. "Doesn't sound like Tony's style."

"Like I said, long story." Rhodey smiles, obviously enjoying the conversation. "Is that all?"

"No." Steve stares at him for a long time, gauging the best way to proceed. Rhodey is a trained soldier, one used to giving commands that affect thousands of lives. He's not going to buckle easily. Additionally, he's not dodging questions, nor is he trying to hide behind half answers. Given the man's close relationship with Tony Stark, who values blunt answers above all else, direct might be the best way to go. "What are your thoughts on SHIELD?"

Rhodey laughs and shakes his head. "In official capacity or as friend of an Avenger?"

"Do they differ?"

"Not particularly, and neither of them are good, I'll say that."

The comment speaks volumes in its simplicity. Rhodey has been too close to Tony Stark for far too long,; there's no way he could be tied to SHIELD, too.

"What if I told you that SHIELD's inserted someone inside of Stark?"

"I'd say you're fucking with me," Rhodey says. He watches Steve, waiting for a response. When none comes, he sits up, slipping a phone from his pocket. "And you never were the type to joke. Hang on, I think I need to pull the big guns in for this."

"Tony doesn't-"

"I'm not calling Tony," Rhodey says. He places the phone to his ear and waits for an answer. "Hey, I'm on seventy-two. Rogers' office." He doesn't say goodbye, simply slips the phone back into his pocket. "Good thing I was having dinner with Pepper. She'll take all this better than the man."

Relief floods through Steve. He can't solve this problem alone, but he needs to be smart. A marauding Tony Stark would only be slightly less dangerous than an angry Bruce Banner, but a protective Pepper Potts may be the best kind of ally.

"So you going to tell me what all this is about?" Rhodey's leaning back in his chair again, but the air of nonchalance is gone. He's a soldier at heart, which is why Steve trusted calling him in the first place. Rhodey understands the way he thinks, and, more importantly, appreciates doing whatever it takes to keep people safe. They might not be much more than colleagues, but they have similar backgrounds that extend well beyond the military, and they both care too much to just turn and walk away.

Steve pivots his monitor, turning the screen so that it faces out into the room. A flick of the mouse brings Darcy's employment application back, her badge picture on prominent display in the top left corner.

Rhodey smiles and shakes his head. "Ah, the cute girl from the lobby. Abusing company assets to stalk employees isn't cool, you know."

"I'm not," Steve is automatically defensive. It's been a long time since anyone teased him, at least actively, and the emotional callouses aren't as thick as they used to be. "If you'd have stuck around a little longer,  _War Machine_ , you would have seen her climbing through the hole you blew in the foundation."

"So  _that's_  who you were locked up with?" Rhodey studies the screen. "Bruce Banner's lab assistant, huh?  _That_  redefines blinding you with science."

The silence stretches out between them, awkward and bit uncomfortable. "Man, pop culture references are a complete waste with you. Thomas Dolby, hot lab assistant. Google it."

"It's poetry in motion…" Pepper strides into the room, singing in a bad falsetto. "I always loved that song."

Steve and Rhodey both stand.

"Hey," she says to Rhodey, planting a quick peck on his cheek. She turns to Steve, all smiles and sunlight. It's easy for him to understand what Tony sees in her. "Hello, Captain Rogers."

"Miss Potts."

Pepper perches on the edge of the other chair, her legs bent slightly so that she can cross her ankles. Steve's interacted socially with Pepper Potts on a few occasions, and he's always found her charming, if not a little bit confusing with her constant chatter and attention to detail.

"Steve got himself caught up in a little problem the other day," Rhodey explains. "One I had to crack out the suit to help with."

"The suit…" she says, glancing back and forth between the two men.

"It's okay, Pep. He knows and I know. We're secret identity buddies now," he turns and smiles at Steve. "Right, Cap?"

It's strange how, in the course of twenty-four hours, Steve's carefully cultivated façade has started to crumble. He should be panicking, or worrying about the repercussions, but there's only relief. He can't buy back the time that's been lost, hiding away from the world, but it's nice to know that as he moves forward, he doesn't have to be alone, not unless he wants to.

"I need you to promise this stays in this room," Steve says. "No Tony, no Avengers, just the three of us."

He waits for both of their nods before he launches in.

**O-O**

It takes a full hour to brief Pepper and Rhodey on everything – his initial interest in Darcy (which Rhodey smirks through), the abduction, SHIELD, and the connection to Banner and Selvig. Through it all, they listen patiently, only stopping him when something doesn't make sense, or when Steve accidentally skips an important detail.

Thirty minutes into the conversation, Rhodey sheds his suit coat. At forty-five, Pepper kicks off her high heels and coils her legs up underneath her. They give Steve their undivided attention, for which he is grateful.

"So," Pepper says when he's finished, "SHIELD's into corporate espionage now, and they are messing with your secret crush, who may or may not have a complicated personal history with Dr. Banner." She glances at Rhodey. "Did I miss anything?"

"Just that secret crush girl is a SHIELD agent, and he abused corporate resources to look at her HR records," Rhodey says. "I feel like we need popcorn."

"And a bottle of wine. This is better than a movie." Pepper turns to face Steve, smiling gently. "Don't worry, Steve. We only tease people we like."

He ducks his head, embarrassed and grateful at how easily these people have worked their way into his life. Their willingness to hear him out and help is beyond humbling.

"So what comes next, Cap?" Rhodey outranks him, but he's deferring to Steve. "This is your op, you call it. We'll back you up."

He scoops up a pen and begins twirling it back and forth. "I was thinking about this like a triangle earlier-"

Someone snorts, but he's not sure if it's Pepper or Rhodey.

"I'm a graphical thinker," he says, grabbing a sheet of paper and quickly sketching out the image. "If you put Darcy in the middle, you have three vertexes – SHIELD, Banner and the unknown." Each corner is labeled B, S, or U to represent the three factors. "If you look at it like this, then the safest route is away from Banner." He draws a sharp line, bisecting the middle of the triangle as it descends from the top point. "If we move her away from Banner, that will remove SHIELD's interest, and it should remove the threat from the unknown."

"And how, exactly, are we going to do that?" Rhodey asks. "I think it's sound, but we still need an extraction and landing point. You can't just take the girl away from something and not have anywhere for her to go."

"Oh, that's easy," Pepper says. She's been sitting back, taking it all in, but now she's upright, finger drumming against her knee. "Just reassign her."

"To where?" Rhodey says, "She's a lab assistant."

Pepper stands and steps closer to Steve's desk, where Darcy's employment application is still displayed on the monitor. "Says here that she's got a Political Science degree. These days, that's as multi-purpose as business. Plus, we all know that she's not going to be a dumb cluck if she's holding her own with the Dr. Banner."

"She's smart, but in a scrappy sort of way," Steve says, "She managed to remember some article on common passwords, and used that and finger print patterns on a smart phone screen to figure out how to crack the phone code. That's how we got a message out to JARVIS."

"Street smart. I like it." She considers the screen for a minute longer. "What if I put her on the Arc project? We need smart, entrepreneurial thinkers there, and it sounds like she gets science  _and_  real world, so it's a win-win."

It's so easy, just a simple word from Pepper, and Darcy's on the track to something infinitely safer. She'll be free from SHIELD, and capable of setting her own course. Steve knows that it doesn't solve everything, like whatever it is she has or doesn't have with Dr. Banner, but she'll be able to handle that from a much safer distance, without the threat of SHEILD breathing down her neck. It might not be perfect, but it's a start.

"Steve?" Rhodey prompts. "You good with this?"

"Yeah," he says, but it's half-hearted. He keeps thinking about Darcy's fight, the way she pushes back on people when they try to force her in a specific direction. Will she see this as helpful, or will she get hung up on the fact that she has no say? "Ms. Potts-"

"Pepper," she corrects him. "Plotting puts us on a first name basis."

"Is there any way to find out what's going on downstairs? Removing Darcy from danger is only part of the solution." The shift allows him to focus on the larger issue. There's less guilt there, less second-guessing about the choice he's making.

"If I can't find out, then I'll work my magic," Pepper promises. "I'm tight with the big guy,; I can get it out of him." She runs a hand across the front of her dress, brushing away non-existent wrinkles. "But first, I need food. Someone promised me dinner, and I'm starving."

When Rhodey doesn't move, she nudges him with a toe. "That means you. Food. Now."

"But-"

"No but, food. Lots of it." Pepper scoops up her shoes and grabs the jacket off the back of Rhodey's chair. "You always keep your wallet in your left coat pocket. If you don't move, I'm going to go crazy with your credit cards."

"See why I need the suit?" he says to Steve. "I don't know how Tony puts up with this."

"Because he loves me, and you do, too." Pepper guides him toward the door. "I'll make a few calls tomorrow, get everything set up."

"Can you give me some lead time before you do?" Steve asks. The doubt is still gnawing at him, and he knows he needs to talk to Darcy before the rug is pulled out from under her.

"I'll line everything up, but won't say go until you say pull the trigger," she promises.

"Thanks," Steve says. "I know it's asking a lot but-"

"It's what friends do," Rhodey says dismissively. "You're inner circle, now. We'll keep your dream girl safe."

**O-O**

Steve has one of the Stark Town Cars drop him off at a deli two blocks from his apartment. He told Darcy there was a ton of food, and they could order pizza, but he's suddenly craving pastrami on rye and chocolate chip cookies.

It's there that he sees the small cellophane bag, filled with suckers.

_"I asked if I could have a lollipop after I answered their questions, but they didn't say yes."_

He'd promised a drugged Darcy a sucker when they got out, admitting that he knew about her preference for strawberries. She's come clean with him, telling him both the good and the bad. He needs to do the same. He tosses the bag on counter, next to the sandwiches, and digs money out of his pocket.

"Candy?" the man at the counter says. "You never get junk like that, Steve."

"Things change," he says. "Things change."


	10. Icarus

It's always amazed Darcy how diverse New York City is. Growing up in the suburbs, her town had been homogenous – traditional middle class with nice front yards and late model American sedans in the driveway. Diversity was only available by driving at least twenty minutes, and even then, it was too extreme, too opposite and not enough mix. Red Hook isn't like that, as witnessed by the difference in her apartment and Steve Rogers.

Four blocks and a world apart.

Although she's exhausted when she lets herself in, Darcy can't resist the urge to explore Steve's home. He said apartment, but that's as deceptive as thinking Central Park is just a small green space. This is an honest-to-god loft, with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and crown molding that isn't lost under layers of paint.

She wanders slowly around the living room, taking in all the details. The furniture is heavy and masculine - arts and crafts tables and shelves mixed with oversize leather seating. Deep, heavy chairs and a couch easily eight feet long. There are no movie prints on the walls, no stacks of video games or sports equipment piled in the corner. This is the difference between temporary and permanent, and it's more than being a certain age or having money. Bruce has both, but the wreck he calls an apartment could qualify as a level one biohazard.

The living room gives way to a large, sleek kitchen, where modern appliances mix with dated pieces – a microwave next to a vintage refrigerator, a bag of Starbucks coffee in front of a stainless steel percolator. The pantry and refrigerator are full to capacity – fresh produce, milk and cheese, eggs, and an endless supply of shortbread and ginger snaps.

"Guess who has a sweet tooth?" Darcy singsongs. She can see him, stretched out on the gigantic couch, a book in one hand and a bag of shortbread in his lap. In between turns of the page, Steve would shove cookies into his mouth – whole - oblivious to the crumbs collecting on his shirt.

"Stop it!" Darcy digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, forcing away the image. She's romanticizing images of a man she hardly knows, just after digging herself out of a lopsided relationship that ran her straight into the ground. Maybe obsessing over unobtainable men is her lot in life – smart, capable men who do amazing things. Some women, they're attracted to power, but this is ridiculous. "God, I'm pathetic," she says. "I'm turning into a superhero groupie."

Digging her palms deeper into her eyes, Darcy presses hard enough to see stars. She doesn't need a man to define her; she never has. Bruce was a weakness, with his brilliant mind and absent-minded ways. She fell for him because she thought she could save him, but the reality is that he didn't want it. As for Steve, well, that's more confusing. Everything about the past week has been confusing, but he's been the one, perfect, annoyingly consistently constant. After ages of uncertainty, she's beginning to appreciate the power of confidence.

"You, Darcy, need a drink." She drops her hands, and turns slowly around the kitchen. A small wine rack sits on the counter next to the refrigerator. Six dusty bottles, neatly lined up for selection. While it's not a stiff shot, it will take the edge off enough to think slow down and actually think.

It takes a firm swipe with a paper towel to clear away the dust that's collected on bottles of French and Italian red wines. Who buys wine, and then doesn't drink them? A bottle may last for a week in her house, but it's usually open the minute the door closes behind her. But then again, Darcy lives in a closet of an apartment with mismatched furniture and a plastic novelty shower curtain.

It takes a bit of searching to find a corkscrew, which only reinforces Darcy's suspicion that wine is here as a courtesy, and not a regular consumable. Glasses are an easier find, although it does take a bit of climbing to reach the top shelf. A friend in college used to joke that she would marry the first man who asked, so long as he was over six feet tall and had a decent last name. In a place like this, Darcy could see where the height advantage would come in very nicely, but she'd always planned to keep her own name, thank you very much.

With wine in hand, Darcy resumes her exploration of what she's dubbed  _Steve's Very Grown Up Space_ TM. The alcohol is working its way through her body, working loose knots and tight muscles. She knows that she should slow down – it's been hours since lunch and, while her tolerance has always been good, it's nowhere near what it was in college.

Darcy can't stop thinking about college and all the things that led her to this point as she moves slowly down the hallway. A semester away and the promise of six college credits really did change everything. She'd been on the path to life in the corporate world, LSAT's and law school and maybe even business school, too. She'd had plans, all of which had been knocked off path as easily as a Norse God being hit by van. The study guides, the applications, had all gone up in a puff of smoke the minute that Coulson called. After the hint of adventure, she needed more – she needed to spread her wings and make a mark on the world. That wasn't going to happen in school.

The pictures in the hallway tell her that Steve's story isn't all that much different. Faded black and whites have been lovingly matted and framed: shots of men in uniform, their arms draped casually around shoulders as they smile for the camera. Scattered throughout are beautiful pencil drawings – a bell tower with a tall spire, a thicket of pine trees, a man with a head of thick dark hair and a broad chin with an arrogant twist to his smile.

What captures her attention, though, are the photos where Steve is smiling. It's a sweet, awed sort of expression, like he can't quite believe his luck. He's usually in the center, with the same five men clustered around him, but he's not the focus, just the keystone.

Darcy remembers what it's like to feel that way, back in the days when she believed in what she'd signed on to do. The excitement had been so vivid, and her desire to do good so strong. She stepped in, convinced that she was doing the right thing. For a while, she believed it, and then, once she was accepted into the inner circle, she knew it. Like Icarus, she flew high, basking in the warmth of inclusion, and, when she crashed back to earth, there were only memories of what the light felt like on her face.

She sits down, right there in the middle of the hallway, and pulls out her phone. It's new, a replacement provided by SHIELD, encrypted and untraceable. Her contacts haven't been loaded yet, but that's okay, this is the one number, other than her parents that is, which she knows by heart.

When the phone starts to ring, she taps the speaker button and sets the phone down on the hardwood floor. The sound echoes along the hallway, high-pitched and oddly metallic. In the lab, the synthetic materials that make up the floor and the walls soften the sounds. Here, in the middle of the real world, the manufactured and the organic couldn't be any more different.

Bruce picks up on the seventh ring, "Banner." He always answers the phone the same way, distracted and out of breath. There's the familiar low hum in the background, the whir of servers and high-powered generators. He's in the back of the lab, in what Erik calls the cave, no doubt hunkered down with his precious scientific discovery.

"Hey there," Darcy says. She forces her voice to level, hoping that the lack of usual fawning isn't noticeable. "This is your daily reminder to turn the coffee pot off, absent-minded professor."

He chuckles, and she imagines him rocking back and forth in his chair with stains on the front of his shirt and ink spots on his left sleeve. He never cares about these details, not when there are a million other things to be captured. "I'll have you know that I actually remembered. Consider me house broken."

"It only took a year, but hey, this is progress." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching how the liquid clings to the side before slowly sinking back down the bowl. "I got the all clear. No lasting damage."

"So you're released for duty?"

His ambivalence is a knife, twisting slowly in her chest. Some things never change - situation normal, all fucked up.

"No," she says, and takes a sip of her wine. It's warm as it slides down her throat, liquid courage to power her forward. "They want me to take a few days off, get rested up and all that." It's a bald-faced lie – she was all but ordered back into the lab, post haste. "I think they're worried about a lawsuit."

"But it's only Wednesday," Bruce says. "And we're making so much progress."

Progress. He and Erik are making progress. It has nothing to do with Darcy's presence or absence. Three months… even three weeks ago, she would have spliced those words, twisting them to mean something different. Now, well; now she's finally beginning to realize that it's never been about her. The affection showered on her the other day? It's legitimate, but it's not romantic. That's all it's ever been, affection. It just took enough distance to see it for what it is, and surprisingly, the realization doesn't hurt, at least not in the way she expects.

Last Friday, she'd been ready to spend an evening at home, eating chocolate and watching movies. She'd set herself free before this ever began; all that had been missing was the ability to see it.

"Sorry, boss," Darcy says. She's firm, but more importantly, she's confident in her decision. She's not going to run back into the lab, and she's not going to bow down to the pressure from SHIELD. Adventure, yeah, she'd still like that, but lies and deceit aren't a necessary component. "I'll call daily, though, and remind you to turn the coffee pot off."

"No reminders to eat?"

"You're a big boy. I think you can figure that out."

There's a series of pops and hissing as Bruce shifts the phone around. He's already drifting back into his work, the sound phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder betraying his defection.

"Go back to work," she says. "I'll check in with you later."

He doesn't say goodbye, but then again, he never has, and, for the first time, Darcy doesn't try for both of them. She hits the end button, and takes another sip of wine, a little bit sad, but otherwise okay. The end came a long time ago, this is simply the proverbial closure that will allow her to move on.

It's hard, she thinks, being an adult and looking at the big picture. Suddenly, exploring the apartment and freezing underwear feels like something that a different Darcy would do. She stays seated in the hallway, drinking her wine and staring at the photos until it's too dark to see anymore. Only then does she get up, using the wall to guide her back to the kitchen.

It's well past nine, and the rumbling in her stomach has grown to a steady roar. Darcy refills her wine glass, then turns her attention to the pantry, debating what she can manage to make without setting off the smoke alarm.

"Hello?" There's the clink of metal on wood, followed by the gentle click of the door. Hardwood creaks under the hard soles of Steve's shoes, a sort of prelude as he works his way through the apartment.

"Back here," Darcy calls. "I was just about to start making dinner."

It sounds so domestic -  _make dinner_  - more like burnt grilled cheese. Too bad there isn't any scotch or bourbon, she could have fun with the riff and have a drink waiting for the man after a long day, and then follow it with completely inedible food.

"Hi honey," she says as Steve enters the room, "How was your day?"

He drops a bag on the island, and heads for the refrigerator. "Long. Endless paperwork and boring meetings. How was yours?"

There's a protracted silence. Darcy's smiling so hard that her cheeks ache.

"We sound ridiculous," Steve says, shaking his head. His smile isn't as big, but it's there. She's noticed that, when he does smile, it never lasts for very long. He's not the brooding type, but on the flipside, exuberance isn't in abundance, either. Fortunately, she has enough of that to go around.

"Speak for yourself." Darcy hooks a finger in the edge of the large brown bag, tipping it toward her. "What did you bring me?"

"Hope you like pastrami," he says. "I know I we could order pizza, but sometimes-"

"You just get a jones," she says. "And I love pastrami. You have any spicy mustard in that icebox?"

Steve pulls open the door, disappearing inside the giant white box as jars clink against each other. "Spicy mustard, horseradish, you name it, it's probably here."

"The only thing I'll need after this is a toothbrush."

They spread their feast out on the counter, Steve unwrapping sandwiches as Darcy retrieves cutlery and paper towels. "I hope you don't mind, but I opened a bottle of wine. It was beer-thirty and I needed a drink, you know?"

"That's fine. Tasha likes red, so I keep a few here for when she drops by." Steve's head is bowed, his gaze fixed on something in his hand. His comment about Natasha Romanov is so completely off the cuff and relaxed, that Darcy somehow skips the need to fixate. She knows the Russian spy, and has great respect for her. Natasha was actually the one to tell her that not every relationship has to evolve into a romantic one. It wasn't advice Darcy chose to follow at the time.

"Listen, Darcy…" Steve's head is still bent, and he's refusing to make eye contact. "After we split off, I went back to the tower."

"Yeah, you said you were going to do that. Can you slide me the mustard, please?" She pulls her sandwich apart, removing the tomatoes and picking off the fatty pieces of pastrami. "I took care of some things, too. Nobody's going to unstick me if I don't try myself, so I called Bruce and told him I'm taking the rest of the week off."

Steve's head jerks up, and his eyes are wide. "And what did he say?"

"Nothing, really. He was in the lab, which means the rest of the world doesn't really sink in. Why?"

Something out of sight rustles – heavy plastic – but whatever it is, Steve won't set it on the counter. Something is eating at him – his cheeks are flushed, and he's doing whatever he can to avoid eye contact. "I did some things to try and help unstick you, too. It felt like the right thing, but now, well…I'm not sure." He's so visibly uncomfortable, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.

"What'd you do?"

"I called in a few favors. There's a spot on the clean energy project, that is, if you want it." Steve's all but mumbling now, and he refuses to look up. "All you have to do is say the word."

"And if I don't?"

His cheeks are completely crimson, and, even with the five o'clock shadow that darkens his jaw, Steve Rogers looks so incredibly young. Without the guard up, the high sheen of clothes and carriage that makes him seem so much more mature, he can't be much older than she is. But he's got it all together, all figured out, where all she has is a bunch of mismatched glasses in the cabinet over her sink – every single one of them with beer logos on them.

"Then you don't have to." He sighs, and when he finally looks up, she gets so much more than she was expecting - fear, weariness, hope, even a tiny bit of cynicism. Steve places a small bag on the counter, never breaking away. "I promised you one of these when we got out," he says, and there's that inflection from before, the elongation of the O. It's a small cellophane bag, stuffed full of suckers, the kind that bank tellers gave out when she was little.

Darcy nods, her sandwich completely forgotten. She's overwhelmed by the gestures, both big and small. There's no demands, no preening, just simple presentation – here's what I've done, it's your decision what you want to do with it. No one's ever done that for her before, which may be part of the reason she's been so hell bent on doing it herself.

If Steve had walked in here saying 'this is what you'll do,' she would have rebelled, her back up at the inference that he knew better. But he didn't do that, and it makes all the difference in the world.

"Best gift ever," she says softly.

"You were pretty passionate about your lollipops, but you were also pretty high," he says softly. "Wouldn't want you to think that all the blood draws and immunizations were for nothing."

"That's the great thing about these." She reaches across the island, gently grabbing the bag and sliding it toward her. "They're only sticky if you let them."

The reference is subtle, but Steve's smart enough to pick up on her meaning.

"I thought you'd be angry," he says. "I didn't realize until after how I might be making things worse."

Darcy stares at the bag for a long time, trying to remember what each flavor tastes like. The names bring back memories from a simpler time and place, when sitting in the backseat of her mom's car with a strawberry lollipop and the sun on her face was the greatest thing ever.

"Not worse," she says softly. "I just needed to be the one to make the first step."

"And now?"

She looks up. Steve's watching her, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"With God as my witness, I'll never get stuck again." She peeks up at Steve, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "Too much?"

The smile that creeps across his face is dazzling, bright and full of optimism. "I saw that movie twice in the theater. You'd make a great Scarlett O'Hara."

**O-O**

"Why am I not tired? What is it, like one in the morning?"

"Almost," Steve says. "Try twelve forty-five."

They're in the living room – Darcy stretched out on the giant sofa like a cat, while Steve sits on the floor, his back pressed against the leather mere inches from her reach. Empty plates and discarded wrappers litter the table, along with the bottle of wine, which is three fourths of the way gone. The hours have flown by as they've talked about everything and nothing, meandering here and there as whimsy dictates. No one judges, and, therefore, there's nothing to hide - laughter, whispers, shouts of joy, they merge with smiles and the errant tear to create a landscape that is pure and innocent and completely theirs.

"What color is it now?" Darcy demands. The sucker is almost gone, the candy shrinking down to almost nothing. She rolls to her side, propping her head up as she sticks out her tongue for inspection.

"Blue. So are your teeth."

"Let's see yours."

He opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out to the side, eyes crossed.

"Oh that's lovely," she says, drawing out the words. "Makes you look so intelligent."

"Says the girl with the blue teeth."

"Red white and blue. I'm just doing my patriotic duty, Captain." Darcy bites down on the remnants of her sucker, scraping off the last of the hard candy with her back teeth. It will be stuck there for hours, pieces to savor long after the favor fades.

She leans forward, tossing the stem on to the table, In doing so, she leans a bit more to the left than necessary at just the same time that Steve turns around. They meet in the middle, so close that their noses touch, but not hard enough to collide. Steve's eyelashes are impossibly long and thick, and up close, the ring of blue at the diameter is so much darker than the actual iris - Indigo and cerulean with little flecks of steel gray.

He reaches up slowly, hand coming to rest at the base of her neck, warm and solid as he guides her closer. Their foreheads press together, and Steve's breath is sweet, reminding her of the grape scratch and sniff stickers she'd loved in third grade. That's what this is like – pure and full of innocent joy.

"I don't want to be presumptuous," Steve whispers, just barely loud enough to be heard. He's so close and so warm, and as much as Darcy wants him to move, to do  _something_ , there's magic in being so close and reveling at the thrill before the magic hits.

"You're not." He doesn't want to be presumptuous, but Darcy is torn between caution and bulldozing ahead.

"I've wanted to kiss you for such a long time." He's staring at her mouth, oblivious to the fact that she's watching at him, completely lost in wonder. This isn't something she's chased, but it fell into her lap all the same, with all the heady joy that previous relationships have lacked. "But I-"

Darcy's the one to break the spell, or maybe cast a new one. She catches his lower lip, which is soft and slightly sticky from the candy. It would be easy to attribute the action to autopilot, to say that her hormones kicked in or that it was a combination of alcohol and exhaustion, but that's a lazy answer to an easy question. As they lean closer together, moving in fractions because they don't know what the other will do, it's a perfect, awkward balance. There's no one in a position of power here, even though Darcy is above Steve, and his hand is on her neck. They're equals in everything.

But, when she hesitates long enough to catch a breath, Steve takes control, his tongue grazing her lip, and suddenly everything is on fire. Her hands have a life of their own, raking backward and forward through his hair, ruffling and smoothing, then ruffling again. Steve makes a noise, similar to a growl, that's lodged deep in his throat. He's not perfect here in the low light with creases in his shirt and his khakis, his hair shooting off at odd angles, but he's so  _right_.

"Can you do that again?" Steve's voice is husky, but the uncertainty rings through. She understands that: needing someone so much that being rational is only a fleeting memory. Want has driven her for so long, but it's masked something deeper, the need for a connection with someone who actually wants to connect back.

She rakes her fingers through his hair again, scratching her nails lightly over his scalp. Steve's eyes flutter closed, and his cheeks are flushed and rosy. It's like she's seeing  _him_  now, not through the filters that are a byproduct of her own insecurities. He's just a guy, one with his own issues and hopes who wants to connect with the world.

The reality is so much more attractive than anything her imagination could have ever painted.

"Come here," she says, abandoning the hair abuse long enough to grab his shirt and haul him up on the couch. It's shallower than the cot in the cell, but there's no desire for distance here. "What is it about us and small spaces?"

"Nice, isn't it?" Steve nuzzles into her neck, his scruff burning her skin so that it tingles. "Had a hard time sleeping last night."

"You and me both," she admits. "You're good at keeping the nightmares away."

"I could say the same about you. Does that make us a matched set?"

Darcy smiles and Steve's arms wrap tighter around her. As much as she fights it, sleep wins, and she drifts off into a deep, interrupted slumber, where dreams don't haunt her, and everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kat, who makes me giggle like nobody's business 3.
> 
> Insane week next 2 weeks, plus the Darcy Lewis fic exchange looming, so I'm going to leaving you hanging for a bit in a good place. It's probably going to be a good 8-10 days before you see an update, but I promise it will be worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, for commenting, for kudos, alerts and favorites. You're all better than a Strawberry Dum Dum.


	11. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A number have asked what’s up with Bruce – well, for the Darcy Lewis “This is Going on Facebook” fic exchange – I give you a bit of insight into the dear Dr. Banner. [Binary ](http://goingonfacebook.livejournal.com/3634.html)

Sunlight filters in through the long windows in the living room, warming Darcy's face. She's tucked firmly between the back of the couch and Steve's chest, with a soft fleece blanket draped over their entwined bodies. It holds in the warmth, creating a cozy little nest.

She never wants to leave.

Unfortunately, a full bladder dictates other things.

"Steve." She says his name softly as she presses against his chest, trying to rouse him out of sleep. He's dead to the world, head is tipped forward so that his hair sweeps across his forehead in a messy fall of gold. A few strands stick to his forehead, dark from sweat. He's so deep in that he doesn't move, his lips parted as he breathes deeply, in and out.

He's not an unknown entity now, but he's still ridiculously intimidating with his polish and perfection, but also incredibly endearing in his earnestness. It's a fascinating dichotomy, the mashup of take charge, man in command and adorable nerd who's too awed to talk to the girl, making his admission about how badly he wanted to kiss her last night all that much more powerful.

Darcy stares at his mouth, remembering it all – the combination of innocence and pure desire that had only grown with contact. Her skin is still raw, tingling in the best sort of way. It's been a long time since she's woken up with someone, and even longer since she didn't actually regret it.

God, to kiss him again, to touch him, to recapture the high that created a magical little bubble around them. There were no problems, no issues to be solved, no bogeymen lurking around the corner. She was just Darcy, not a special agent, and he was just Steve, and the hand warm and firm against her back was just a hand, not a weapon.

"Steve," she says again, a little bit louder. Her bladder is not as warm and fuzzy as the rest of her body, and the demands of relief are bordering on flat out mutiny. "Steve, I need to go to the bathroom."

That big, strong hand, which had held her close last night is on her hip now, and it moves slowly, fingers gently digging into her skin to squeeze a gentle hello.

"Just lean to the side, I'll crawl over you," she says, head angled down to spare him a painful relay of morning breath. "I really need to go to the bathroom."

"Come right back," he mumbles, eyes still shut.

"Keep my spot warm."

She clambers over him, trying not to think inappropriately sexual things with one foot on the floor, one leg hooked around Steve for balance. Never has the idea of climbing someone like a tree been so compelling.

 _Simmer down now,_  she thinks _. Bathroom. Leak. Pilfer toothpaste. Then resume inner horn dog._

Steve doesn't move - his shoulders rise and fall, and it's so easy, so comforting, so normal. There's no bullshitting, no playing dumb on what she does or doesn't know, just Darcy Lewis with her own idiosyncrasies and needs.

It's been a long time coming, but it feels damn good.

The bathroom, bright and sparkling white in the light of day, is way too cold. Darcy takes care of her body's needs, then scrubs her hands and face. There's only one toothbrush, so she spreads some Crest (would it be too much for Steve to have some old-ass obsolete brand of toothpaste?) over her index finger, scouring away the fuzzy tongue syndrome that comes from drinking too much wine. Her cheeks are flushed, and there are red patches across her neck and chest where Steve's scruff roughed up her skin. It's sensitive to the touch, but her touch isn't enough. It's a pale image of what the man in the other room can do.

"What am I doing?" Darcy says softly. She sinks to the cold tile, her back pressed up against the wall for support. She's spent months chasing someone who didn't want her, and is just now digging herself out of that one-sided train wreck. Sinking right into another relationship is probably the worst thing she could do, but at the same time, she can't imagine not being here.

What's that lovely old adage? It finds you when you're least looking for it?

_It._

There's no way. She hardly knows Steve; hell, she hardly knows herself. Her life is a mess, and getting into a relationship may be the stupidest, most unreasonable thing she could do. But then Darcy touches the tender skin on her chest, and she remembers the conversation in the kitchen last night, along with the honesty of their conversations. This isn't about controlling or manipulating, and it's not lopsided. No one has more power here.

They are equals.

It's been ages since Darcy has been anyone's equal. Not here in New York, not in New Mexico, hell, not since elementary school. She's always been the sidekick, the runner up. That's why this is all so comforting. It's not that she's rushing in too fast – if anything, she's going too slow.

She scrambles up off the floor, ignoring the mirror as she flies back down the hall to the living room. Steve's shifted, moving over to her side of the couch, one arm extended lazily across the cushions, hand dangling off the edge. His eyes are closed, but he smiles as she approaches.

"I thought you ran away," he says. His words slur together, sleep and the simplicity of the moment removing all inhibitions.

Darcy stretches out on the couch next to him, her arm slipping around his waist so that she can pull them tight together.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says.

**O-O**

The first chill of fall has settled in, and they walk the few short blocks to Darcy's apartment hand in hand, shoulders pressed together.

"You're sure?" she asks, yet again. "Five days is a lot of time to spend with someone you don't really know."

"For normal people," Steve says. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, and people glance at him as they pass, no doubt wondering who he is. It's hard not to stare, and yet they have no clue, they're just drawn to a guy who's impossible not to look at. "We've already made it five days together with no problem and the one night break in between was lousy for sleep."

"That's true." Darcy sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying in vain to hide the smile. God, he makes her feel so good with those goofy little comments. The warmth blooms up from inside her chest, radiating all the way to the tips of her fingers. She wants to turn and kiss him, right there in the middle of the street, but this is still too private. Putting it on public display doesn't feel right, at least not yet.

"Besides," Steve says, gently hip-checking her, "we're safer together."

"That's a relative term."

They turn the corner, Darcy's head pressed against Steve's shoulder, hands still entwined. A familiar form sits on her apartment steps, his dark hair streaked with strands of gray.

"Bruce-" Darcy automatically pulls away. Her hands fly to her front, smoothing imagined wrinkles and hiding away imagined layers of guilt. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't stand, his dark eyes darting between Darcy and Steve. Bruce is the king of bottling up his emotions, and this isn't any different - he's mellow, almost laconic. No, excitement is saved for the things he holds dear – the big discoveries, the girl who got away. She's only experienced his guard dropping once, and the memory of how that ended is carved deep in her soul.

"I got a phone call this morning," he says, voice soft. "Apparently you have a new job. I thought we should talk about it, maybe understand why, but seeing is believing, right?"

Bruce addresses Steve, not Darcy, his eyes narrow. Steve moves faster than Darcy can speak, stepping in front of her to block any onslaught.

"It's okay," she says softly, placing a hand on his arm. "Can you give us a few minutes?"

Steve turns sharply, and there's that little furrow between his eyebrows again. He reminds her so much of a puppy when he's confused or disturbed, everything right there on the surface to read. Darcy drops her hand to his back, rubbing gently.

"Plans aren't changing," she says softly. "Just give me a little bit."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go home. I'll call you when I'm done."

Steve glances back at Bruce, who's not left his perch on the steps. They're both coiled, ready to act. The former's motivations are understandable and endearing; the latter, well, that's a mystery.

"Call when you're ready," he says. He doesn't touch her, just turns on his heel and walks back up the street.

There's an awkward silence that extends with each of Steve's steps. It's not until he's around the corner that she can even turn to look at Bruce. He's the lion to Steve's puppy, unpredictable and deadly, but she still refuses to believe that he would ever unleash that intentionally.

Then again, she's never really experienced him at the edge of rage, either. At least, not until now.

"I deserve better than this," he says.

"So did I, Bruce. Let's not waste time comparing who's compiled the bigger pile of wrongs, okay?"

He sighs and stares at his hands. There's a deep scar at the base of his right index finger, which he rubs absently with his thumb. How many times has she watched him get lost, with nothing but the repetitive motion of his thumb over that scar to ground him?

"Why are you leaving me?"

Darcy sits down on the steps next to him, achingly conscious of her rumpled clothes. Somehow, this makes any collegiate walk of shame look like an afternoon in the park.

"Why do you think it's about you?"

He snorts and shakes his head, pausing long enough to push hard on his knuckle. It cracks, and then he resumes rubbing his scar, unable to look her in the eye.

"You know," Darcy says, weighing her words carefully. "I planned on telling you myself. I didn't realize things would move so fast."

It was the truth. Steve had just laid out the offer last night, and he'd texted her acceptance to Ms. Potts after they finished their sandwiches. Somewhere in the last twelve hours, the proverbial ball started rolling, bowling over everyone in its way as it picked up steam.

"You still haven't answered the question."

"I did. It's an opportunity to  _do_  something. I don't want to be a lab assistant all my life, you know."

"You don't want to be my assistant, you mean."

"God, Bruce, will you stop?"

She's louder than intended, drawing the attention of a woman passing by. Darcy takes a deep breath, grappling with the right words.

"Look, we both know that this is the right thing, especially after everything that's happened."

"And you think that by not working with me, you'll be safe?" Bruce looks up the street. Steve's long gone, but his presence lingers on. "You think that he'll be able to keep you safe? You hardly know him."

"I know him a lot better than you think."

"I doubt that, very much."

Of all the things she's put up with over the past months, it's this cheap shot, the insistence that Bruce knows better, that finally digs deep enough to force her to break. Fucking her and running, thinking that she could act as a cheap surrogate for the woman he still loves, locking her out when all she did was try, she suffered all those slights. Maybe it was because she didn't know who she was, or what she wanted, but this was too much.

"What do you want me to say, Bruce?"

"That you won't go." He can't look at her when she asks, and that's more of a tell than if he had.

"No, you don't want to lose," she counters. "It's not about me, it's about you. It always is. I'm sorry that I couldn't be enough. I'm sorry that Betty is with someone else. Most of all, I'm sorry I'm not going to see you every day, but I need to take care of me."

She stands, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

"You have a special place in my heart, and I'd like to think that you'll always be my friend, but-"

"You've moved on with someone else," he says.

"No, that wasn't what I was going to say. It's time to do what's good for me."

She squeezes his shoulder, then leaves him sitting on the steps. It's hard turning away; in fact, instinct is screaming at her to go back, to keep him from flaring up or losing control. That's been her job for so long that she's lost sight of the bigger things. She can't save the world if she doesn't save herself, and taking these little steps are the moving her in that direction.

"Goodbye, Bruce," she says softly, and unlocks the door to her building. She waits for a beat, waiting for an acknowledgement or a return of some sort. When it doesn't come, she lets the door fall closed behind her, closing out a chapter, and hoping what lies ahead is worth the loss.

Equals, she reminds herself. No sidekicks, no not being good enough. This isn't about having someone to fill the spot that Bruce is vacating, it's about demanding more, and deserving better.

 _I'm figuring out who I am, she thinks_ , and begins climbing the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Abbie & Lucy!!


	12. Faith

Since his discovery in the ice, Steve's found that time moves in strange fits and starts. It roars ahead one minute, barreling toward an unknown milestone, then suddenly slows to a crawl, the minutes dragging on like days.

In the tumble of minutes since leaving, time has all but stopped. It's bogged down by the memory of Bruce Banner, staring at Darcy like a man who's caught sight of the very salvation that's eluded him for ages. She's water in the desert, food to the starving, and the commutation of a life sentence, all wrapped up into a single, solitary package.

The worst part of it all is that Steve understands. It's exactly how he felt this morning, staring down at Darcy, her hair tangled and cheeks flushed. Those little gasps, the giggles and the way she clutched at the back of his shirt when he kissed her – that wasn't random – it was him. No, it was them.

And now Bruce Banner is threatening it all.

Steve forces himself to pass the time. He throws away the wrappers and bags in the kitchen, straightening up the pillows and the cushions on the couch. When pacing laps around the living room no longer works, he breaks down and takes a shower. She follows him there, filling his mind with images - head tipped back in laughter, eyes out of focus after kissing him.

He's not a stranger to longing, to wanting something so badly he can taste it, but this is different. Somehow, Darcy's seeped into him, taking over rational thought. She's not like Steve expected - she's so much more.

Memories of last night snowball into what could be – what if's, fantasies, daydreams all crashing together with more force than Steve could have ever anticipated. His hands are larger than Darcy's, and his palms are calloused, but in the fever of illusion, he can't feel the difference. Fire rips through him, blinding white and hot, and it's not until he's breathless, forehead pressed against the tile and the water running cold on his back that he's free of the spell, but not free of her.

It's not love – it's too early, too unknown for that – but it can't be far off. She wouldn't hold this sway over him if it weren't.

**O-O**

Sixty minutes turns into ninety, and she still hasn't called. Steve paces the living room again, a caged tiger anxious at the lack of activity. He wants to call, but he can't. Not just because she's with someone else, but because of the risks. Angering Bruce is just one of the many consequences of playing this wrong, and it's making the already painful wait interminable.

When the mechanical beep of his phone does finally rip through the quiet, Steve's on it in flash, too eager to wait or think. He's always been one to act, to go on gut in times of crisis. Apparently, in matters of the heart, he's not any different.

"Hey," Rhodey says. There's the rush of wind in the background, along with another man's voice. "You somewhere you can talk?"

"Yeah." Steve's heart is hammering in his chest. He assumed it would be Darcy, but the world spins on. He wanders across the room, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. The blinds are down, but not closed, and he forces the wooden slats apart to watch the street. It's started to rain, and people rush by, desperate to get out of the nasty weather. "What's going on?"

"I went on a treasure hunt this morning."

"And?" Steve prompts. He's short, but he doesn't really care at the moment. "What'd you find out?"

"Well, I'm locked out of Banner's lab for starters," Rhodey says. "I have total access at the Tower, but I can't get in. Neither can Pepper."

"Any chance Tony overrode your clearance?"

"No," Rhodey is emphatic. "He wouldn't lock me out, and he'd  _never_  shut down Pepper. He also wouldn't give anyone carte blanche access to the Arc reactor, but apparently Banner has that, too."

Across the street, a woman runs, a newspaper open over her head to keep the water off. Cars rush by, headlights on to cut through the gloom. "Why would he need access to the Arc reactor?"

"Well, that's where it gets interesting. I ran into Dr. Selvig when I tried to get into the lab. He was quite distraught to find out that your girlfriend was in trouble."

Girlfriend. It lights a match under the memories, cooled by his release in the shower. Darcy may be exactly that, or she could be, it still doesn't change the fact that she's not here, and Steve can't be sure that she'll actually be coming back.

"Come to find out," Rhodey continues, "He has quite the soft spot for your little double agent. The minute he found out she might be in trouble, he spilled it all. Her not-so-secret identity, his role in helping her sneak into Stark, along with two other very alarming facts."

"Those being?"

"Well, for starters, she has some history with Banner."

"I know that," Steve says. He's suppressing the bubble of anxiety, focusing on the only thing he can control, getting to the bottom of just why this all happened in the first place. Remove the threats. Banner, the outside force, anything that might hurt Darcy. "And the other?"

"Do you have any idea what Banner and Selvig are up to?"

"No."

There's the heavy thud of a car door closing, shutting out the wind and the noise, followed by the familiar ding of keys in the ignition before an engine roars to life. "They're trying to rebuild the Tesseract, Steve. Banner thinks he can use the power within the cube to reverse his condition and reclaim his life."

The Tesseract. The word is like gas over open flame, blasting everything wide open. All the walls, all the compartments Steve's created to keep everything safely contained crumble around him. Bucky falling into a frozen river, hundreds of feet below a rushing train. A plane, crashing down in the Arctic Circle, robbing Steve of a life, of Peggy Carter, of a chance at something more. New York City, smoking under an alien assault.

The Tesseract has done enough damage, ruined enough lives. It's absolute power, and it corrupts absolutely. Even if desired for a noble cause, it is nothing but danger. This is why behind the abduction, the reason for the snatch, but not the who. Someone out there is hell-bent on getting their hands on Bruce Banner's work, and, given his open acknowledgement of Darcy as a person of interest, they're using the easiest, fastest route to get there.

"You have to shut it down, Rhodey."

"Already on it. I have a call in to Tony. As soon as he gets back to me, I'm slamming the lid shut. I've got Selvig with me. We're going to get this under control."

It's one loose end of many, but Steve doesn't tell him that. Darcy's still out there, dealing with Banner-who may or may not be stable. Whoever made the grab in the first place is still lurking out there, and will no doubt make another attempt at accessing Banner's lab.

"Let me know when it is. I need to go find Darcy and make sure she's safe."

"You mean coffee girl isn't with you?" Steve can't tell if Rhodey's surprised or amused. "Lock her down, man. You have to keep her somewhere safe until we have this all cleaned up. She's not going to be safe until it's done."

"I know," Steve says. "Call me when it's done."

He shoves the phone in his pants pocket, his mind already four steps ahead of his body. First and foremost, he needs to get Darcy back here, safe and sound. Once that's done, he can slow down and think, process through what everything means. Until then, there's only one mission, and it involves a very special, very stubborn woman who may not appreciate the way he's about to come crashing in.

Steve jerks the door open, moving so fast that he barrels straight into Darcy. She's standing in the hallway, a giant tote bag on the floor next to her. Her clothes are different, and her face is pale, but she's there, unharmed, alone, and soaking wet. The glint of defiance that's been such a permanent part of her make-up is gone. The edges are softer now, the brashness tempered so that it won't hurt to touch.

"Can I come in?" she asks softly.

He wants to yell at her, demand to know what the hell she's thinking. She's obviously walked here by herself, without a weapon or an awareness of anything that's going on around her. The anger is immediate, but it's tamped down by that same desperation that's made time pass at a glacial pace. Steve catches her by the wrist and pulls her through the door without a word. One swipe of the leg drags the bag in behind her, and then the door slams shut with a resounding thud. The words are all there, jumbled together on his lips, but Darcy moves before he can go on the attack. She wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing so tight that it should hurt. Her breath is hot against his chest, burning through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

He wraps a hand in Darcy's hair, tugging her head back so that he can look at her.

"I'm not going down without a fight," he says. "I spent too long waiting and watching. I won't go back to that."

Before Darcy can say a word, he's kissing her. It's not like the night before, full of innocence and hope. Everything has changed, including him. Steve isn't the naïve kid that he was in 1942 – time and loneliness have taken care of that. He's lost too many things to not stand and fight – for her, for so many things.

His hand is still tangled in her hair, but Darcy isn't one to stay still under his guidance. She's grasping the back of his neck with one cold hand, and her other twists a knot in the back of his shirt as she kisses him back. When he stops to catch his breath, she's the one who continues, her mouth warm and wet against his jaw and his neck. Then she's the one who's demanding, forcing his head back down to hers for another kiss.

The front of his shirt is wet now, too, soaked through from the rain she carried in. All it takes is a quick grab of the back collar, and it's up and over Steve's head. Then he's guiding her backwards, through the apartment, past pictures of ghosts and memories who would cheer him on if they could.

Steve hesitates on the threshold of his room, suddenly uncertain as to what comes next. She's looking up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, and there, beneath that softness, there's a vulnerability, something so raw and honest that it twists in Steve's chest.

"Hi," he says softly. All the anger is gone now. She's here, and she's safe.

She came back.

"Hi." Darcy's voice is soft, and the corner of her mouth arcs up into a small smile. "Were you going somewhere?"

Steve glances back, over his shoulder. The room is just like it always is, bed neatly made, closet door closed. He's looking at it through another lens, though, trying to see it through her eyes, something that's completely foreign.

"Darcy," Steve says when he turns back to face her, "do you want to-"

But she cuts him off, throwing her arms around his neck, her face buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"Christ, Rogers, all you had to say was Darcy and I'm there."

**O-O**

He'd like to think that they aren't awkward or rushed, that his fumblings and her laughter didn't reveal how nervous either of them is, but that wouldn't be honest.

Everything else, though, is. The fact that, once out of her clothing, Darcy is shy, and wants to hide behind covers or under his body, or the way his body aches when she touches him, like it can never be enough. She likes it that he talks to her, and for some reason, hearing him say her name, over and over again has some sort of magical effect. Once Steve realizes it, he forces down his own shyness, whispering her name when he kisses her neck, her stomach, the bend of her elbow.

She's the one who asks, and when she whispers "make love to me" in his ear, Steve is sixteen again. There's protection in the bathroom, which he rushes to claim, with an awkward promise to explain later, but Darcy doesn't care. She's pulling at him, dragging him back to bed and to her, and between the two of them, they manage to open the little foil packet. All the haze of emotions – desire, excitement, that warm glow that's emanating up from deep inside that Steve is afraid to name, they all blend together, blocking out everything but the moment.

Sadly, it's only a moment, if not a tiny bit more, but they both laugh and hold tight to each other.

"Sorry about that," Steve says. He's curled around Darcy, his hand flat against her stomach.

"Oh there's absolutely no sorry to be hand," she says. "The nervous thing is over, and we don't have to be anywhere for a while."

"What are you proposing, Miss Lewis?"

He can feel the silent laughter, her back moving against his chest.

"Nap, food, maybe a little discussion, then a rematch. Assuming you're game, that is."

Steve moves lightning fast, flipping Darcy over on her back. He clasps her wrists together in one hand, pinning them up over her head. She could wriggle free if she wanted, but she doesn't. It may be because his other hand trailing down her side, raising gooseflesh as he nears her hip.

"Short nap," Steve says, kissing the hollow of her throat. He doesn't want to leave this little cocoon yet, and there are enough things hovering nearby. Better to enjoy this little sliver of heaven now. "Food and discussion later."

"Yes sir," she says lazily. "Who am I to argue?"

"Darcy Lewis," he says, as if that's all the answer needed.

"And don't you forget it."


	13. Swirl

The softest of dings echoes from a distant room. At first, it seems unreal, a tease, or maybe a bad dream. Darcy squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to give into the Pavlovian urge.

Ding ding.

Ding ding.

It's louder this time. Or maybe it's not so much that it's louder, but she's awake, and this most definitely isn't a dream. If it were, the nightmare would take over, and the innocuous dinging would turn into an awful seventies song, the type of crap her mom used to love to play just to drive her up a wall. Then a parade of mortifying life events would pass before her eyes, ending in a horrible china doll chasing her down the hallway with a scalpel in her hand.

Who the hell names a song "Hot Buttered Popcorn," anyway?

Moving cautiously, Darcy slips free of the tangle of blankets. Steve is sprawled out on his stomach, his arms wrapped tightly around a pillow. He's too far gone to notice even the slightest motion, or the floor boards creaking under her bare feet.

Just for a moment, she hovers on the edge of bed, wishing that she could push away all the noise and slip back into the innocent oblivion that consumed them for the countless hours. It seems that there's been one consistency in the past few days, and it's been sleeping surfaces. Bunks, cots, beds, and couches, they all float in and out of her consciousness, blurring together until there's only Steve.

"Get over yourself," she mutters. Mooning over men is so fifteen, and she didn't even do that then. It's time to get herself together and figure out who the hell is pinging at this ungodly hour of who knows when.

The pine floor is cool against her feet, the boards creaking and groaning at the pressure. Darcy walks along the perimeter of the hallway, trying to avoid the worst of the squeaks, until she's in the entry way. Her bag is where she dropped it, her cell phone peeking out from the end. In a normal day, it's never far from her reach, but last night, it was discarded like a lost toy. The small battery icon at the top left corner is red, a silent demand for electricity. She flicks the unlock bar, rapidly keying in her passcode, ignoring email and heading straight to text.

Erik is looking for her.

There are a series of messages, rolling in over the course of the last twelve hours. The first, sent not long after Darcy arrived at Steve's, is simple enough.

_Are you okay?_

A second cluster arrived a few hours later.

_Worried about you._

_Please check in._

The last cluster of messages were the ones to wake her. Sent at 7:46 and 7:48 am, they take a different path.

_Where the hell are you?_

_Something's wrong, need you here now._

_He activated the fall safe._

Darcy sinks down on the floor, the phone clutched in one hand. The fail safe, embedded deep underneath the Tower, has one function. Developed by Bruce and Tony, it's a sort of safe room, built in the case of a meltdown. It's reinforced steel and concrete is enough to keep Bruce in, or out, depending on which side of the wall he's in when the trigger is activated.

Tony jokingly called it Bruce's wubby, a figurative safety blanket, there for moments where Bruce feels weakest. In all the time that they've occupied the lab, the fail safe has never been triggered, not even by accident. The large, round door, looking so much like an old bank vault, stays open as a constant reminder of the available safety if needed.

A giant, tangible security blanket. Hence the nickname.

Wubby.

Her thumbs fly over the keypad, words tripping one after another. Without a second thought, Darcy taps the green send button.

A small prompt window appears: Battery at less 5%, mobile access deactivated.

"Sonofabitch," she hisses, tossing the phone on top of her bag.

Fortunately, the bag in the living room means she doesn't have to sneak back into the bedroom to recover her clothes. In less than ten minutes, Darcy is dressed, with a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. A hasty brushing of teeth at the kitchen sink, since the bathroom connects to the bedroom, and she's out the door, not pausing long enough to leave a note.

It's not until she's in a cab, headed for the Upper East Side, that Darcy realizes she left her phone behind, too. Not that it was going to do a lot of good to her dead.

**O -O**

It's a combination of things that befuddle Darcy. The bright sun cuts through the daze of sleep, or more appropriately, lots of sleep strung together in unproductive lots. She's functional, but there's a fog weighing her down, slowing normal mental reactions. Her phone, the lack of a note, her uncertainty over everything that has transpired, but more importantly, what's to come…they pile up and cloud her reality. It's not until she's well into Manhattan, taking in the swarm of bodies, all wrapped in muted blues, grays, and blacks, that she realizes where or when it is.

Thursday morning, and the urban jungle swirls with people, all rushing to somewhere important.

Everyone seems to have somewhere they need to be, roles to fill, reasons to be. She envies the nameless strangers who rush to unknown locations. There's meaning to what they're doing, even if it's as simple as paying the bills. At one time, she thought she was focused on something with meaning, but it quickly rolled up into some one, and that's when everything went fuzzy. The opportunity hangs in front of her now, ripe with potential. One free do over, no ramifications, no going directly to jail.

It should be a good thing, and she should be sprinting towards it. Instead, she's hauling ass through midtown, rushing into yet another mess that needs fixing.

The lobby at Stark is crowded. Darcy's grateful, everyone is too busy to expect the normal chitchat. One raised hand is enough to get her through security, even without her badge. It's like that through the whole building, drafting on the backs of others, too apathetic or distracted to worry about expecting her to flash her credentials.

 _Has it always been this way?_  She wonders, leaning back against the elevator wall.  _Or am I simply seeing things differently?_

She watches as people board and exit, streaking up or down. Women balancing against the wall, working running shoes or ballet flats off, in exchange for high heels. White cords, snaking from ear buds to smartphones and mp3 players, as people stay in their own little worlds.

When she does finally slip into one of the cars, jabbing a button to descend into the bowels of the building, there are a few halfhearted smiles. Otherwise, the car is quiet. A sniffle or a pair of squeaky shoes are deafening in the lack of noise.

**O -O**

The lab is quiet when the doors hiss open. There aren't any warning lights flaring overhead, nor are there warning klaxons advising that everyone should clear the space or risk soiled linens and missing body parts.

No, the lab is oddly normal. The fluorescent lights cast a blue haze over everything, washing out color and robbing warmth from the room. One afternoon, when there was nothing else to do, Darcy had traced the veins that lined the inside of her forearm, marveling at the contrast between her skin and the blue lines that snaked across the surface.

"Erik?"

Her voice echoes off the dull surfaces, bouncing back from odd angles. The oval door that seals off the failsafe is sealed shut, a yellow light spiraling ominously in the top left corner.

"Erik?" She's more frantic now, pushing chairs out of the way so she can get closer. It takes her directly past Bruce's office. The door is open, and papers liter the floor. A stack of file folders are spread out on the linoleum floor, forms spewing out in a pastel eruption of chaos.

"Over here."

It comes from behind a bank of tall metal tables, the voice familiar, but nowhere near as distressed as she would have expected. Just like that, something drops, shifting the churning fear in her stomach into something bitter and angry.

"Erik, what the fuck? You said the failsafe was activated?"

She shoves another chair out of the way. Without the obstruction, Erik's legs are easily visible. His back is pressed to one of the table legs. Instead of bloody and battered, he's rumpled but intact, with a coffee mug in hand.

"It was." He tips his head toward the mammoth metal door. There's no acknowledgement, no thank you for coming, but it doesn't surprise her. Erik isn't much of one for platitudes in normal circumstances, let alone this. "From the inside."

A spoon scrapes against the side of the mug, the shriek pulsating through the room, sending a shallow ache through Darcy's back teeth. Tired and on edge are not good combinations in the regular world, let alone this odd lot that is life.

"Back up and use your words. What happened?" She sounds like a mother demanding an explanation of spilt milk or a spat. Sometimes, that's the only way to break through with brilliant men. "Where is Bruce?"

"Bruce went buhbye." Erik rests the mug in his lap, ignoring the long trail of broth that pools and congeals on Erik's pants leg. "I'd been working. He appeared out of nowhere, looking a little bit green, if you know what I mean." Erik raises his eyebrows, an overemphatic reinforcement of his point. "I asked him if he was okay, he said no, and blew straight in through that door. That's when I started trying to find you."

"Why?"

"Because you're the only one who can reason with him. Something's knocked him off the rails, and I need you to get him back on. We've got work to do."

Darcy darts a look to the door, the yellow spiraling light, and then back to all the paperwork on the floor.

 _What if I'm the reason he's off the rails?_ She wonders.

She spins and flees the room before Erik can say another word.

**O -O**

Instead of taking the elevators, Darcy runs up six flights of steps, crashing through the fire exit, into the lobby. Someone calls her name, but she doesn't stop, forcing her way through a crowd to the doors. The morning traffic has dwindled to a constant, manageable hum of people. Nannies with their chargers, on the way to the park; scattered professionals rushing to meetings, and the random tourist, stopping to gawk up at the familiar building.

Darcy walks as fast as she can, dodging bodies and trying to avoid the snag of bags and strollers. There's a coffee shop up at the corner, a respite where she can collect her thoughts and figure out what comes next. Caffeine, maybe some necessary carbohydrates, then maybe she'll be firing on all cylinders.

"Miss Lewis."

It's not her name, so much as the pronunciation, that stops Darcy in her tracks. He draws out her name, managing to make the first syllable sound like a childish taunt, and the second a command. You, look at me.

She stops, and turns to face the man leaning up against the wall, cool and collected.

"What do you want, Director?"

If he's surprised by her attitude, Nick Fury doesn't betray it. He somehow manages to seem above it all, even here, with a cup of highly commercialized, overpriced coffee in hand.

"I just have one question for you."

"That being?"

He leans slightly forward, head cocking to one side. "Do you really think you're so important, that all of this can't continue without you?"

She's not important, just a cog in the machine, but Nick Fury doesn't deserve that piece of knowledge.

"You're nothing, not even a blip. I could replace you tomorrow."

Maybe it's the lack of food and caffeine, or maybe the yellow light swirling ominously to announce all her failures. Or even worse, the simple bed and white sheets, reminding Darcy of everything she's left behind. Something breaks deep in Darcy, not so much a shattering, but a simple splinter, splitting deep into her chest, spilling all the raw emotions out onto the pavement for the world to see.

"So why don't you, Director? Because honestly, I'm really not in the mood for gas lighting before lunch. Messes with my digestion."

Fury takes a sip of his coffee, controlling the conversation like he does everything else. He's a puppet master, a manipulator, Darcy reminds herself. He's just doing this to get a rise, to pull any additional information out. She doesn't really matter.

"Funny you mention gas lighting, seeing as you managed to bring Dr. Banner down without much effort at all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Somehow, you convinced the good doctor that he needs you. I find that an interesting phenomenon. He needs you, but he sure as hell doesn't want you. That's the rub, isn't it Ms. Lewis? The one you want doesn't want you, even though he can't function without you here. On the flipside, there's a man out there who wants you so bad he follows you around for months like a lovesick puppy, and he doesn't even register."

He takes one more sip of his coffee, and tosses it in a high arc. The cup banks, bouncing off the lip of a trash bin ten feet away, and drops quietly into the dark recesses with all the other garbage.

"I'd just like to know what the hell it is with that…" he glances down, taking in her rumpled clothes with a wry twist of his mouth, "Bermuda Triangle thing you've got going on. Want to be there or not, once you're in, you can't escape."

Fury's in motion, melding smoothly into the flow of bodies that stroll towards 2nd Avenue, without a backwards glance at the wreckage left in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologize a) for the epic delay and b) for the unbeta-d state. I'm going to try and finish this up in the next month or so (probably 5-6 chapters left in total), and am not going to let professional life constraints way lay me. Apologies for any egregious grammar errors – flew from the cuff in lieu of a spot check to speed it 'to market.' Thanks again for all the kind words of encouragement – hope to have this all cranking and wrapped soon.


	14. Decay

After the verbal onslaught, there's nowhere to go. For once, Darcy can't bury herself in work, or run back to her apartment and hide away from the big bad world. There is no one to sympathize, let alone empathize with this convoluted path that she's somehow carved for herself.

Fury's words ring in her ears, nasty taunts that hurt more because they are half-truths. As much as she wants to deny the barbs, she can't. There's no fire left, no desire to fight, or even to push back. Every ounce of strength has been drained away, not just by Fury, but by Bruce, and by SHIELD, and even a little bit by Steve, who believes good where none really exists.

Fleeing, she cuts across 78th, skirting around the French Embassy on Fifth Avenue, before cutting across into Central Park. The sun is out, washing everything in a soft yellow light. Children huddle together, hands clasped as teachers lead them toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, promising trips to the third floor to see the giant bamboo structure that dominates the roof.

The longing to go back, to push off the failures of everything post New Mexico is all encompassing. She wishes she'd never met Phil Coulson, never accepted his offer to come to New York. At the time, it had all been a grand adventure.

Funny how far from reality that adventure seems now.

The farther north Darcy wanders, the less people she trips across. Most of the day time pedestrian traffic tends to hover south of the museums, people clustering around the landmarks they know. The higher the street number, the more it becomes locals who jog here every day, or walk their dogs, treating the park like their backyard. Up here, the city feels more personal, a community, as opposed to a faceless thrum of bodies.

It's a good corollary for where she's landed. Her life is midtown, all swirl, and no contact. Very simply, she's lost her connection to the real world and, in doing so, she's lost any sense of who she is, or even who she could be.

All of this because she had to get three more college credits to graduate, and she thought the internship would be the easiest way to get it.

**O-O**

The sun is high in the sky when Darcy claims a bench by the reservoir. She's passed a couple street vendors, and her stomach growls in protest. Even her simplest loves are corrupted by this whole experience. No more dirty water dogs or sipping sodas through a straw as runners blow past her, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

"The bloom is definitely off the rose," she mutters, shifting on the bench, legs folding so that she can sit cross legged. There's a soft breeze rolling off the water, ruffling the trees and knocking loose the first of the fall leaves. They cascade softly down, scattering across her lap and shoulders.

"You look like something out of a postcard."

A man approaches from the west, a beautiful dog trotting in front of him. Well-worn jeans and a soft, faded sweatshirt blend in well with the scenery, and his dark hair falls across a high forehead. He stops short, and with one quick tug on the lead, the dog plunks down on its haunches, ears shifting restless, as if on alert.

"She's beautiful," Darcy says, leaning forward. "May I?"

The man nods, and tugs gently on the leash again. "Dushka." The dog pops to attention, springing forward, her nose actively sniffing the air. Darcy extends her hand, palm down, knuckles out. The dog glances up at her owner, not moving until he clucks at her. The sound reassures her enough to step forward, her moist nose grazing the back of Darcy's hand.

"Hi, sweetheart," she croons, not moving. The dog sniffs the back of her hand, then drops her head, muzzle slipping easily into the open arc of fingers. "You're a doll."

"She's a flirt," the man says. He has one hand shoved in his pocket, the other hangs limply at his side, the leash wrapped loosely around his wrist. "Never met a stranger, have you, Dushka?"

The dog drops down on her haunches again, arcing her head to the side so that Darcy can scratch behind an ear. Her fur is thick and soft, a dirty, ivory color that seems better suited to a cat than a dog.

"Is she a husky?"

"Laika," the man corrects her. "Similar, but not quite."

"The space dog!"

"You know it?" The man is smiling, his eyes open wide in delight. They're a bright, piercing blue, and full of life. "I'm surprised! When I say Laika, people glaze over."

"Nasty byproduct of a useless degree," Darcy admits. "I might not be able to find a meaningful job, but I'm your worst nightmare at trivia." She digs her fingers in the soft fur at the dog's neck, searching until she finds that magical spot that sends a back leg into overdrive. "You are descended from astronauts, puppy. Oh what great things your ancestors got to see."

"She'd make a lousy space dog," the man says, nodding toward the bench. "May I?"

"Please."

He sits down a few feet away. The dog shifts to fill the space in between them, pressing her haunches against her master's foot. "She gets motion sickness in a car going twenty miles an hour."

"In Manhattan traffic, can't say as I blame her." Darcy stops scratching the dog long enough to extend her hand. "I'm Darcy."

The man takes her hand, his skin is cool to the touch. The leash dangles limply from his wrist like a bracelet. "I'm Jay. And this is Dushka."

"Nice to meet you, Dushka and Jay." The dog's ears perk up with her name, and she scoots forward, nosing Darcy's hand again. The contact is so warm, so innocent, that she wants to sink into it. Losing everything would be so easy right now, no one who knows who she is, with no expectations.

"I hope we're not interrupting," Jay says. When he smiles, his eyebrows go up just slightly. It's impish, almost devil may care, the sort of mannerism for a man who's very comfortable in who is he and where he belongs. "I've been staring at text books for days, and I needed a breather. Constitutional law gets so dull."

"You're a student?"

"I'm in my second year," he says, plucking at the faded Columbia Law sweatshirt. "You?"

"Lab assistant," she says brusquely. "Not as exciting as law school."

"It's not really that great."

"It's better than where I am."

Once she'd thought about law school, but then the world had changed, and she'd evolved with it. After seeing destroyers and legends from other worlds first hand, the minutiae of penal code and inheritance law had lost all of its appeal. Wouldn't it be great if she could be like Dushka, and be perfectly content with a mundane life, even though her ancestors had been launched into space?

Jay opens his mouth, but he's cut short by a shrill digital chirp. Both he and the dog jump to attention, a small silver cell phone materializes out of nowhere.

"I'm sorry," he says, standing and moving quickly away from the bench. "It was nice talking to you."

He walks quickly away, the phone pressed firmly against his ear. The dog trotting attentively next to him, as if Darcy never existed.

"Nice talking to you, too, Jay," she says, and leans back against the bench. "It was nice to be normal and not have a hidden agenda for all of about two seconds."

**O-O**

Darcy doesn't go back to Stark Tower. She takes another long circuit through the park, making it all the way down to the boat basin before cutting across to hail a cab at Central Park West. While her phone and most of her meaningful possessions are shoved inside a duffle bag at Steve's apartment, she needs to head home and take inventory before moving ahead with what could be a series of momentous decisions.

The building is just as dingy as it always has been, the white trim faded and peeling. Inside the vestibule, flyers and mail are shoved haphazardly into corners, and multiple layers of tape gum up the small metal mailboxes. She doesn't know any of her neighbors, and she doubts that any of them have been here for any length of time. This isn't a place to put down roots, not without soil and constant cultivation. This is just a temporary stop on the way to better things. Now that she knows that, it's easier to see things for what they are.

It's time to call it a day, to pack up and start the next chapter in her life. One without SHIELD, without broken men who need saving. Sure, real life may end up being boring, but it's the world she belongs in. She's not a super spy, nor is she cut out for a life of manipulation and subterfuge. A stable job, a decent apartment, a chance to grab drinks on Friday night with friends…they're simple things, but there's nothing wrong with aspiring to simple.

Especially not when complex hurts so damn much.

She doesn't allow herself time to think about Bruce or Steve, about the needs and the wants of this whole convoluted mess. For once, she needs to put herself first, to focus on what is good for her, and on the future. No need to save people, no need to solve anyone else's problems.

Darcy hikes her bag over her shoulder, and slips her key in the lock. She's flipping the bolt back as the door flies open, the momentum pulling her forward and off balance. The edge of a coffee table, which always hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, jams into her shin. She goes down hard, her hands slamming into the scarred wood floor. She's eye level with a pair of running shoes and faded jeans.

"Hello, Darcy," Jay says. "We've been waiting for you."

She looks up, just as the second man enters the living area. Unlike Jay, he's in business attire, his dark suit a stark contrast to his silver hair and goatee. Without the harsh fluorescent overheads, he's simply pale, and not ghostly.

"Hello, Miss Lewis," he says, his pronunciation of her name awkward, stilted, the W awkward. "I'm sorry our time was cut short, but Dmitri was kind enough to arrange for us to meet again."

At a loss, Darcy grabs for the first thing that comes to mind. "I thought your name was Jay?"

Jay smiles, but this time, when his eyebrows raise, there's nothing but pure malevolence. "Dmitri is Russian for James, Darcy. Don't you know anything?"

"Oh she knows plenty," the man in the dark suit says. "She just needs the proper motivation to tell us."

This time, Darcy is prepared. A white cloth is forced over her nose and mouth, the pungent smell of decay clogging her lungs, and then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rambo'd, unbetad, but cranking ahead. Thanks for the warm welcome back.


	15. Answers

When there are endless stretches of hours to be filled in an empty life, diversions become critical to sanity. Sketching only fills so many, and with huge gaps in Steve's working knowledge, he started slowly, decade-by-decade, sampling literature, music, movies, and art. Somewhere around the mid-sixties, movies and general media started leaving him cold left him cold, but the music…oh how the music had taken hold.

He didn't love everything, and it wasn't even that there were a specific set of genres that appealed to him. Very simply, he liked what he liked, so much so that one of the long cabinets in the living area of his apartment is dedicated to vinyl records. Clint tried to give him a hard time once, insisting that it's time to get with the digital age, but Tony had come to his defense.

"Some things," he'd said, dropping a hand on Clint's shoulder, "Some things are just better in original form."

Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Steve recalls one of those songs now. It's from the late seventies, a punchy rock song with deep lyrics and a plaintive wail.  _Every day, just the same, old rules for the same old game...the bed's too big without you…._

He'd woken up some time after eleven. It had only taken him a moment to reach out for Darcy, to recall the previous day, and then to begin planning for what came next.

The alarm bells didn't sound at the empty space. It was late, and not everyone needs sleep the way he does. Retrieving a discarded pair of athletic shorts from the floor, Steve runs a hand through his hair, knowing by touch that it is a mess at the crown, shooting off in every direction. When he was little, his mom used to lick her fingers, using the moisture to try forcing the errant strands down. It probably doesn't make a lot of difference how his hair looks when he's bare chested, wandering around his apartment without shoes or even brushing his teeth.

"Darce?"

He calls out for her when he can't find her in the kitchen. The bathroom door stands open, and the living room is empty.

"Darcy?"

Steve roams the apartment, pulling open doors, checking closets, even looking behind the heavy olive draperies that cover the windows. She's not there.

 _When women leave without saying goodbye, it's called coyote syndrome._ Clint had explained to him one night. They'd been stuck between ops, waiting for a call that never seemed to come.  _You know, like how coyotes chew their arm off to get out of a trap._

Is that what this is? Had Darcy second-guessed everything and taken off? Is he a mistake, a regret that she needed to run from?

Steve scans the living area, taking in rumpled pillows, discarded books, trying to recall everything. His eyes land on the bright red duffle bag by the door. The top is unzipped, and contents spill out onto the hardwood: white t-shirts and frilly underwear, one purple and yellow striped sock, and the leg of a pair of black cotton pants. It's not ransacked as much as it is jumbled, as if the owner dug through, looking for things in a hurry.

In a hurry, Steve reassures himself, but coming back. She wouldn't have left her bag if she weren't coming back.

He holds on to that like a talisman, warding off the fear that hovers in the corners, threatening the peace that had settled in over the last few days.

She  _will_  come back.

**O-O**

With nothing to do, and Darcy's phone going straight to voicemail, Steve does the only thing he knows how to do.

Work.

A car picks him up and ferries him into the city, but instead of Stark, he heads to Midtown. The woman at the front desk doesn't ask for his badge, and a retinal scan in the elevator verifies "Captain Steve Rogers" before launching him up into the building, where men and women rush back and forth with the clipped efficiency of spies masquerading as clerical staff.

"Sitwell," he calls out as he strides down the hall, scattering people like cockroaches. From behind a low gray industrial border, a bald man pops to his feet, eyes red rimmed from fatigue. "Any updates on the men taken into custody the other day?"

He doesn't need to clarify what men or where. Sitwell is Steve's handler, and is briefed on all critical activities. If he needs to ask, he shouldn't know.

"No." Sitwell removes his glasses, digging his thumb and in index finger into his closed eyes. "We did manage to uncover some data on one of the destroyed server boxes. It's encrypted, but one of our guys is familiar with the pattern, and thinks he can break it."

"Anything else worth noting?"

Sitwell shakes his head. "Nothing but hunches, which aren't worth anything."

"Such as?"

"The patterns don't make sense. Too much effort trying to make this generic, vanilla, but then oddball little references pop up. Images, words, even proper names that aren't possible."

"Captain."

Sitwell pops on his glasses, and quickly drops back down in his chair and out of sight. Director Fury appears in his office door, head to toe black, with a gun strapped to his leg. It's oddly incongruous with the carefully cultivated corporate façade.

"I'd like to see you in my office, please."

"Keep me posted," Steve says to Sitwell. He taps gently on the cubicle barrier before walking away. The man is no Coulson, but he's good, and more importantly, he's trustworthy. If there's something to be found, Sitwell is the one to do it, and he'll make sure that Steve is made aware immediately.

"Sit," Fury commands as Steve enters his office. Like the helicarrier, this office is all glass and technology, screens filled with flashing graphics and words. Here and there, a photo will pop up, then disappear before it can fully register, tiny bits of information moving faster than the human brain can process. He doesn't speak until Steve is settled in a chair, hands folded placidly in his lap.

"Have you heard from Miss Lewis today?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Miss Lewis," Fury leans forward, his arms folded in front of him on the clear glass surface. "Have you spoken with her since she left your apartment?"

"How do you know she left my apartment?" Steve demands, surprised by the bolt of hot anger that rips through him. "Am I under observation now, too? Or are we all?"

"Miss Lewis left your apartment at seven fifteen this morning," Fury says, sidestepping Steve's interrogation. "She took a cab to Stark Tower and was inside for roughly an hour. After that, she headed northwest into the park."

"Alone?"

"We had people following her. "

"Then you would know whether or not she contacted me, or anyone else for that matter."

Fury tips his head to the side, his gaze narrowing, as if by staring long enough he can tell whether Steve is holding back.

"What was Miss Lewis doing at the Tower?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I'm asking you."

"I'm not her handler."

Pushing back from his desk, Fury stands and turns to face the window.

"Have you ever hunted?"

"Excuse me?"

"Bird hunting, specifically. Have you ever?"

"I don't see what-"

Fury stares at the window, hands clasped behind has back. A long scar runs the length of his left thumb, the jagged furrow of a knife cut that wasn't stitched together properly.

"Sometimes, in order to flush ducks out, you have to send in dogs. Once the ducks are airborne, you have a clear shot, but it takes the dogs to flush them out."

A city kid wouldn't know the first thing about hunting, but Steve's more than just a city kid. He's spent ages in combat, understanding military tactics, mapping out plans based on subterfuge and counter attacks. The hunting analogy isn't any different.

"What does that have to do with Miss Lewis?"

Fury turns to Steve, his face an inscrutable mask.

"I took a calculated risk," he says, "and flushed out the ducks. Two of them, to be specific. "

He glances down at the desktop, breaking eye contact. It's the first flicker in his calmly composed façade.

"What the hell did you do?"

"We had them outside of her apartment," Fury says, not looking up. "We saw them enter, and had the situation under control. Not too long after that, Miss Lewis returned home."

Adrenaline overrides logic, propelling Steve forward across the desk. Fury's fast, but he's faster, bunching the thick black cotton of the man's sweater in his fist and dragging him forward. There's a loud crash as the desk chair slams into a window and topples, tangling in electrical cords on the way down. A phone hangs precipitously off the corner of the desk, ready to fall with the slightest nudge.

"Where is she?" Steve demands. He's breathing heavily, but not winded. This is panic, plain and simple.

"We don't know." Fury's struggles for air, the thick cotton cutting into his neck and cutting into his windpipe. "There was no one in the apartment, and no observed entry or exit."

"That's bullshit!"

A muscle begins to jump at the corner of Fury's eye, a tick driven either by nerves or by the lack of oxygen. Steve shoves him backward, and the Director stumbles, catching himself on the edge of the desk. It sends the phone flying, the receiver slamming into the metal desk leg and then recoiling into the phone body with a loud thwack.

"Where is she?" Steve demands again. "Find her."

Fury refuses to look at him. He's smoothing out the front of his shirt, trying to force the cotton back into shape. It's distorted, an inverted V puckering up from just below the collar.

"We can't," Fury says. "We don't have a way to track her."

"What about her phone? The chip in her badge?"

"They say she's at your place." Fury glances up, watching as the information sinks in. "There is literally no way for us to track her."

Steve sinks his teeth into his upper lip, sucking hard on the tender skin. The pain centers him, directs the focus to where it should be.

"You can't find her," he says. "But I might be able to."

He spins and strides out of the room, shoving one hand deep into his pants pocket. His phone is there, just in reach, but he can't make the calls until he's out of this building.

"How?" Fury calls after him.

"I want all the information you have, transferred to my phone immediately," Steve says, not slowing down. "I'll find her, and I'll deal with this. And then you and I are going to have a conversation about proper utilization of resources and tactics."

He doesn't wait for the elevator, instead choosing to run down the eighteen flights of steps to the lobby. The exertion doesn't tax him, but it does make him feel just a little bit better.

**O-O**

At Stark Tower, Steve passes his office, turning left into a vacant office reserved for visiting executives. He's texted Rhodey, instructing him to come here, and to bring everything he has on Banner's research.

As frustrating as Fury is, it doesn't take him long to compile and transmit what little information is available. A few grainy photos of two men, one younger with dark hair, face obscured behind dark glasses, and a man with steel gray hair in a well cut suit. The latter matches the description of the man at Darcy's interrogation, right down to the little patch of hair below his bottom lip.

There's no id on the younger man, although there's something in his stance that gives Steve pause. The older man is a different story. SHIELD has identified him as Aleksander Lukin, head of Kronas, parent company of Roxxon Oil. He's former KGB, with a long history of raiding a disintegrating Soviet Union for technology that can be sold to the highest bidder for profit. There's some sketchy detail about Lukin's interest in the Tesseract, and even more disturbing, hints of history with Johann Schmidt. Suddenly, the nameless abductor has a face, and it's not one that Steve ever thought he'd see again.

It's all slowly clicking into place. Lukin, the Red Skull, the Tesseract, and the Super Soldier Serum. Sitting in the middle of it all is Bruce Banner and his research, and there is one sure way to gain access to both the man and his mind.

"Oh Darcy," Steve mumbles, dropping his head into his hands. "What did you get yourself into?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blending movie and comic verse here…geeks and fanboys and girls unite


End file.
